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“God I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”You hunker down in your seat, praying to whatever forces at play this won’t become a mortifying if not deadly ordeal. He fastens your seatbelt for you, a small act of reassurance considering what you’re about to undergo.“Oh quit whining,” Starscream offers dryly, “you’re in safe servos, human.”You roll your eyes at him, assured he won’t catch your dismissal through his infrared view. You’re unsure which part of his alien brain decided this was a good idea, and frankly it’s too late to ask. What’s done is done, if he wants you to vigorously finger yourself in his cockpit, so be it. Whatever arousal he can attain from heat signature alone is his to enjoy, you’ve got no business asking why when you’re the one who looked him in the eye and decided that yes, this was how you were going to spend your weekend. A (relatively) safe flight in a fighter jet, in exchange for a show very few would pay to see on onlyfans.“Remember,” you say, each syllable punctuated to get his full attention, “not sharp turns, no dives, none of it! You and I both know damn well I’m not a pilot, nor am I wearing a G-suit – so do me a favor and-” you swiftly put on your helmet and adjust it accordingly to protect your ears from the rumbling of his engines – “don’t try to kill me if you want me to join the Mile High Club.”“What do you take me for? An imbecile?” In spite of the helmet, you haven’t dimmed the signature screech of his voice. “I have made adequate preparations, a route mapped out, just for us.” His words come out low, lighter, all-encompassing - a far cry from what it was a second before. Suddenly you are far too aware of your situation; inside of a fellow sentient being, one who holds a special type of affection for you. You bite your lip. He’s not lying about the preparations, alright… not with a tone like that reserved for your hearing pleasure.You sigh defeatedly and undo the buttons of your pants, leaning against the seat as Starscream takes off, the rumble of his engines sending pleasant vibrations between your legs. Neither the pressure constricting your chest nor the mortifying nature of this ordeal stop you from pushing two fingers inside of yourself. Ahead of schedule, as always.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You’re an idiot.You shouldn’t have fallen for it, not when Megatron gave you the permission to drink to your heart’s content. It was his little treat after a successful haul of energon. It was only natural that you, his pet, would be invited to enjoy what was denied to you. You should have seen straight through him – the monster you dared to love in your weakest moments – smiling down at you, a cruel ever present glint in his eyes. Maybe you’ve gotten used to it. Tip-toeing when his anger rises, waiting for someone else to take the brunt of it, natural cowardice on your part.When he placed the bottle down on the desk serving as your "habsuite", you awoke from the clink of glass against metal and immediately perked up at the sight of it. That, as you know now, was your initial undoing. Like a shark smelling blood, he could sense your excitement, your weakened resolve to being presented with what you dearly missed.It was reasonably expensive, stolen of course, not like the decepticons cared to spend human money on human things. Thievery be damned, it was a treat you couldn’t refuse, and you oh so arrogantly believed you could hold your liquor like old times.You weren’t terribly drunk - hangovers were out of the question, it was difficult enough to handle Megatron with a clear and unperturbed mind – but your tongue, as it often did under the effects of alcohol, slipped, grew too lax from your so-called “gift” that you made a confession you shouldn’t have.Which is how you find yourself currently, deathly aware of your stupidity, grinding against his fusion cannon. If you could will yourself to die, you’d be doing it right now. Your fantasies were meant to be private, dumb scenarios to entertain yourself with, safe inside the recesses of your mind – then he got a hold of it. You shouldn’t be enjoying this, not when the scorching heat of his blaster makes you feel like you’re fucking the Satan’s pitchfork,The purple glow illuminates Megatron’s face, dark amusement emanating off of him like the rot of a corpse. The cannon has to go off at some point – you tell yourself. There’s just no way it’s going to keep charging forever until you get off, or, well, if you even manage to.And yet, you are a freak; disgusting to the bitter end, orgasm clawing up your insides. You try to keep it hidden, to grit your teeth and maintain some pride in the face of your captor, but what leaves your mouth is a strangled mix between a hiss and a whimper. The wave of shame washing over you as you keep grinding against his cannon is incomparable to the stinging pleasure of your loins. Once the euphoria dies down and you regain your senses, you’re left so thoroughly humiliated you’re practically begging to be obliterated by his weapon if only to escape the newfound dread.You hang your head low, sore and raw, clenching your jaw waiting for his next request, distinctly aware of your lack of agency in this. His claws prick the underside of your jaw as he tilts your head to meet his gaze, blazing red eyes boring into you. You swallow hard against his servo.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Camera feed flickering to your location, Soundwave knows what to expect.As the unofficial “pet” of the ship, you’ve adapted impressively fast for a member of your species – torn away from your home and relegated to small quarters inside the Nemesis, nothing more of a closet by their standards, but a generous habsuite by yours. He won’t say you were delighted to be used up, but you’ve accepted your fate despite it. You aren't particularly affectionate for a pet, not that he minds, he considers himself a private mech – Starscream often complains about your lack of affection, not that it stops him from seeking you out. Soundwave isn’t necessarily optimistic, but he likes to think you and him have a symbiotic relationship; a rare tolerance you have towards him which he’s graciously accepted.Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be watching you self-service; servos he’s come to know as hands rubbing a familiar spot between your thighs. You have nothing to hide, no data he can extract, no weapon you can fashion in secret with modified datapads and the clothes of your makeshift closet. He should be getting back to work, his shift hasn’t ended and with so much satellite imagery to process, his time is needed elsewhere. For once, he’s disobeying orders, too focused on the way your skilled digits move between your legs to care about his duties. He watches in rapt fascination as your back arches, grinding against your own hand – he’s played with you before, but never has he seen you engage in such debauchery with yourself (not that he hasn’t imagined it).The spark building in his system is a welcome sensation, and in spite of the warnings flashing across his vision, he doesn’t dare pop open his interface panel to release his spike and dripping valve. There’s a time and place for everything, but that doesn’t stop him from taking sight of your flushed skin and mouth shaping into an O. He can hear you just fine, groaning and hissing as you add a fourth finger into the mix, notably sore from your last run in with Megatron. His liege has evidently left bruises upon your skin, and Soundwave can’t help but yearn to stroke your abused body, a minimum of comfort he can give to someone like you.Familiar guilt spreads through his frame as your eyes find the camera. You smile as always, grateful to know he’s watching over you, a perverted check-in after the damage Megatron has caused. You can’t hate him, it’s not in your nature to loathe him as easily as you would Starscream. His vents flip to their highest setting and Soundwave offlines his vision to collect himself, putting an end to the recording.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Inside the mines you were exploring just a minute ago, you shoot Blitzwing an exasperated glare as he brings you to his eye level. The face before you is a horror movie amalgamation of shadow creature and Tumblr Sexyman, razor sharp teeth cocked into a smile.“Can’t you just let me go?” you say, having experienced the same situation for the third time this week. Nothing has been clearly established yet, but considering the many occasions he’s fingerbanged you, you’re sure your fragile human self must mean something to the giant killing machine. Admittedly, judging by the overexcited grin he’s giving you, things are bound to get weird unless his other faces intervene. He tilts his head at you like a hungry tiger observing the mouse he just caught.
“Now why would I do that?” he asks, accent thick and clear. You have to remind yourself it’s because there’s something wrong with his translator, not that he’s a giant robot built by German officials to destroy Detroit and all its inhabitants as payback for the Second World War.
You point at the metal behemoth approaching through the mine’s entrance, far enough for you to look like a spec in Blitzwing’s hand, and you wonder for a moment if it’s safer for Blitzwing to splatter you against the wall or wait until his pal gets his two massive claws on you. In a moment of pure, unperturbed genius, Blitzwing flings you into his mouth like a kid chucking a bubblegum ball.
Whirling in the air doing a full, dizzying 360, you land face first against a squishy metal mass you assume to be his tongue. It’s too dark to see anything, the kind of pitch blackness only present in underground caverns. So, you do the right thing and fish out the flashlight you brought specifically to explore the mine before your giant robot bitch plucked you from the ground. Flicking it on, you realize this could very well be a cave if it wasn’t for the stench of motor oil and exhaustion fluid prying your nostrils open. You wheeze and sputter, burying your nose in your sleeve as your teary eyes try to make sense of the other two paths perpendicular to your own, separated by a huge dark gullet at the center, deeper than the Mariana Trench. It’s then it actually hits you; “Oh shit, I forgot about the other two heads.”
Then the tongue below you starts to squirm like a worm being plucked out of the dirt.
You fall back on your ass and push yourself as far away from that thing as humanly possible, up until your shoulders hit the back of his teeth. There’s a commotion outside, and try as you might, you can’t catch his attention by banging against the inside of his mouth while yelling “GET ME OUT OF HERE I DON’T WANT TO GET PROBED BY YOUR TENTACLE TONGUE!”
The lack of an answer leaves you vulnerable to the apparatus rubbing up against your legs. You snap them shut as hard as you can, but you’ve clearly underestimated its alien determination. With an impressive if not outright criminal prehensility, it slips into your pants. Hentai flashbacks fill your mind with a giant DANGER sign pulsing bright red. You try to kick it away and conceal the arousal, leaving you especially hot in the desert that is his mouth – humiliation growing as your attempts falter and you spread your thighs just a bit to let it slip down to your entrance.
You’re going to tear Blitzwing piece by piece with your bare hands once you get out of here, but for now you can only squeeze your eyes shut and whimper as it enters you over and over again, fully aware of the embarrassing wetness having built up when he first caught you sneaking around the place. You throw your head back and groan, forgoing any form of dignity as you fuck yourself with his tongue, meeting every movement of his with jubilation.
As the noises die down behind you, you drill through your second rock bottom by taking off your pants and underwear. You tuck them under your arms like the world’s saddest security blanket and bite your lip as the tongue drags across your stomach and back to your crotch before slipping back in for just a second…
Before Blitzwing’s mouth opens up and he pulls you out. Dripping with your own fluids, the expression of shock on your face is replaced with one of righteous fury – then shame – then fury again.
“You…” you falter, red in the face, “you fucking degenerate.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath, barely taking in Breakdown’s spike. From sheer size alone, it feels like marching into a sex shop and demanding the giant dildo they use to attract tourists.
Knock Out, cunty as ever, already has his far-too-soft-for-metal lips against your collarbone. If you were a sensible person, you would have shot down the mere mention of a threesome. Alas, the notion of trying this new thing called “mass displacement” called to you like a kid at a candy store.
If you didn’t have the audacity to say yes, you would have missed the suppleness of Knock Out’s tongue and the unexpected gentleness of Breakdown’s fingers working you up. You love these guys enough to put up with their strange antiques and deal with their unusually-high-for-their-kind sex drive (or interface drive as Breakdown kindly pointed out before Knock Out immediately adopted the human lingo). They must have watched human porn, there’s just no way they haven’t – not with the way they stroke your body like frat boys finally getting their groove on after years of studying up on
the sex
.
If you had the energy, you would be currently exploring the seams in their anatomy and dragging your fingers dangerously close to the openings in their frames, but there’s very little you can do when you’re busy getting plowed by two giant alien lifeforms. Knock Out, after having given you the most mind-blowing orgasm with his tongue alone, has fucked you so thoroughly you were practically on your own intergalactic voyage through space as Breakdown held you against his frame, having taken the brunt of his partner’s sexual frustration before they even dared to involve your squishy human insides. Dripping with two kinds of transfluid (the valve and the spike kind) you were gazing at them all blearily, looking unsexy as hell like you just got out of a car crash (minus the blood and with more alien cum). The warmth in their optics felt surreal and welcoming. You were small and fleshy against two titans who have witnessed more beauty than you ever will in your entire human life, but it was as though you were the center of their universe. If you hadn’t been crying from getting the best orgasms of your life, you would have teared up.
Now, passed over to Knock Out – whose chassis you’ve grown accustomed to enough to relegate any sadness caused by watching his shiny plating be smudged by your natural oils to the back of your mind – you whimper and steer as his far too competent tongue drags across your neck, servos holding your ass still while Breakdown continues at a steady pace.
“Holy shit-” you mumble, words cut short as the holder of the biggest dick you’ve ever had cups your cheek and kisses the side of your mouth. For all his eagerness, he’s softer than Knock Out, especially for a bot as big as him who looks like he crushes cars between his servos (which may actually be true considering the hammers he can summon to for melee).
Another climax rolls through you, harder than the last one, inciting a pathetic high pitched anime girl mewl from your part. Breakdown grunts against your ear, metal whirring underneath his frame and against your back as your walls clamp down on him hard enough to drag out his long-overdue overload. His noises only serve to excite Knock Out who captures your lips with his and grinds his still-pressurized spike against the sensitive cluster of nerves between your legs.
You come out of your trance having experienced your own death and resurrection, eyes misty and perpetually confused as you wake on the doctor’s slightly softer than steel berth with him hovering over you like a predator. It doesn’t take long for you to notice Breakdown’s fingers stroking your cheek, and once he knows he has your attention, he slips one of his massive digits between your thighs to begin rubbing against the long abused and overused sweet spot. Looking down at Knock Out’s gorgeous spike, you whisper a prayer to Primus Himself as you’re once again assailed by inhumane pleasure.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You’re selfish for taking advantage of his kindness, but you just can’t help yourself with his fingers inside of you.He’s gazing at you with an undeserved tenderness. It should be you in his position, giving him a chance to relax as you work him up. And yet, you don’t bother as his mass displaced frame hovers over you. “Thank you,” he says, voice low and rumbly but caressing like a feather. It is you who should be thanking him for the sheer scope of the impact he’s had on everyone’s lives. He’s a hero of godly proportions in your fucked up little world – you wish you had the words to let him know just how much he’s impacted your sad little existence.But all you can do is kiss him and try to express at least a fraction of your gratitude. From what you've gathered, kissing isn’t very common for Cybertronians, but he’s graciously accepted it as an act of appreciation for your kind. With his spike rubbing up against the inside of your thigh, you drag him down with you, and you can only imagine the ease with which he could have resisted the attempt. “You are precious to me,” he tells you in that wonderful tone reserved for you and you alone. “I promise I will not let any harm come to you again.” You want to tell him it’s not his fault any of that ever even happened, you were in over your head and thought you could handle more than life dealt you. You should be happy, you should be grateful it all went well, but you still haven’t forgiven yourself for the long-healed dents in your leader’s chassis. Leader. If you could laugh, you would. Year after year of slaving away doing menial jobs in a crippled economy, you’ve come to call the leader of an alien faction yours to keep. A cracked smile appears on your lips, and you’ve never seen him more reassured than he is now. It must be scary to care for someone so minuscule, even in his mass-displaced form. The scars on your face from stray shrapnel will never heal, nor will the surgery scars where the doctors fished out three 9mm bullets out of your chest, thigh and back. M.E.C.H have done you enough damage in one lifetime, but with Agent Fowler at the head of this intergalactic shitshow, you at least have one government worker to thank for taking care of your medical bills (and eventual instatement in the small town of Jasper, Nevada). “I’m fine,” you say without feeling, worry long gone after learning the damage wasn’t going to cripple you for life – even though you’ve been weaning yourself off of morphine for the past few months, courtesy of Fowler for helping you beat the addiction on your own instead of wrenching the prescription away from you. The look in his optics tells you he doubts it, but ever the gentle giant, he cups your face in his hands and presses his lips to yours. You welcome it, wrapping your arms around his neck as you soften into the kiss. The spike working itself inside of you is familiar and comforting. Optimus’s propensity to adapt has led him to discover the wonders of human lubricant, which is by far the only thing truly reassuring him the ridges of his spike aren’t going to start tearing your insides out like a cheese grater. If you had the energy, you’d be laughing at your current thought process, but right now you’re too busy being lulled by his ever-gentle timbre to care. He’s grown to know your body well over the months, and you’re unsure if his bleeding spark is this affected by a so-called “mistake” he made long enough for you to forget, but the words he speaks as he works your over leave you unmistakably entranced. “You have shown remarkable bravery in the face of adversity.” He stops to glance over at the scar tissue encompassing the bullet exit holes. They don’t look as bad as they once did, but you wouldn’t call them a pretty sight. Your heart clenches with the way his brow plates furrow in worry. He only makes himself this vulnerable with you around. For that you’re grateful, but you’ll be lying if you said you don’t feel undeserving of his attention. “Bravery I can only dream of showing,” he finishes. You almost want to laugh, it feels like he’s bullshitting you, but the seriousness in his optics is impossible to ignore. Taking in the brightness of those blue lights, you place your hand over his arm and smile.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Hours of watching Ratchet slave away at his workstation have taken their toll.You walk up behind him, confident enough he won’t accidentally crush you after dealing with the hyperactive-likes of Miko. “Hey docbot!” you cry out waving an arm at him. He turns around just enough to acknowledge your presence, massive brow plates furrowed into a wide V. “You should really consider taking a break now, it’s been at least…” you tap your chin thoughtfully – “20 cycles since you started your uh…” you gesture at the massive mechanical mass on his desk, “the thing.” To his credit, despite being clearly exhausted, he tones down the annoyance in his voice when he tells you he’s fine. Right, fine and dandy, you think. You’re half considering shimmying up his leg to get to his massive workstation, look him in the eye and tell him to clock in for the night. But before you can so much as touch his leg, he moves away from you, kneeling down to save your sorry ass neck from developing early onset scoliosis. “I appreciate your concern,” he says matter-of-factly, “but our kind can operate without rest for a considerable amount of time.” You almost wait for him to add something about humans being unable to withstand the same sort of stuff after the two-days-and-a-half all-nighter he watched you pull fueled up on nothing but coffee and spite. Still, you are a shameless being, and so you overlook the judgment of his optics and reel him back in.“Nope,” you shake your head. “Not when everyone else takes time to recharge, and especially not when you’ve been neglecting your energon intake.” You’re unsure if he seems more proud than frustrated when you give him his usual “get some rest” speech. You give his pede a “that’s final” pat as he takes the time to contemplate his next course of action. While staring right at the thingamajig on his desk… “Alright,” you say with your hands on your hips, “well if you don’t want to stop working, guess little old me’s going to keep all their human anatomy for themselves.” You hide the evident smugness in your voice with whininess. Said whininess rings out just loud enough in the (thankfully) empty bridge room for you to cringe inside. Cybertronians have thinner face plating compared to the rest of their frames, which gives the energon underneath just enough transparency to come to the surface in what you’ve come to describe as a blueberry blue blush. Holy shit, you think. Did my lack of game actually work? “I won’t let you impale yourself on my spike,” he states with the finality of a death throw executioner. “I know I know,” you mumble sheepishly, “but what do you say?” You flash him a smile promising mischief. He gives you a final once over, ex-vents loud enough to have the noise reverberate in your ears, and gently offers you a hand to climb on.Back in his berthroom, you grind against his interface panel with force enough to fuck up your zipper. Another pair of jeans ruined in this economy to Ratchet’s bemusement, even if he hides it under a good-natured scowl.“Well shit,” you say, proceeding to remove your pants and everything else on your person in the sexiest manner you can strip, which probably looks more like a headless chicken wrestling with clothes it evidently shouldn’t be wearing. Not that Ratchet minds.His optics trail from the curvature of your neck to the moles and odd freckles bespeckling your chest before receding down to the stretch marks across your stomach and hips. As odd as it feels having someone – an alien lifeform no less – taking in the many flaws of your body, you feel no judgment emanating from him. You would assume the interest he has in your shape is aesthetic in a scientific manner, like a botanist observing the upturned petals of a newly discovered species – but the softness of his gaze indicates much more than that. You don’t flinch when he reaches out an exploratory digit to stroke your skin – heck, you turn around and give him 360 access to everything he wants, completely unabashed by your own nakedness. Glancing over your shoulder, you can almost hear the anatomical jargon in his head as he traces a finger over your trapezius. “Please don’t tell me you’re taking mental notes again.” “My processor is resting just fine,” he responds. You’re halfway through calling him a liar when he scoops you up with ease and brings you to his lips. The kiss is featherlight, tickling the nerves between your trapezius and latissimus dorsi. You let out a short sigh of content and crane your neck just enough to kiss him right on his nose-ish area. It feels much harder than the rest of his face, probably because it’s part of his helm. Eh, you’ll ask later, you’re already far enough with your one way ticket to fingertown. Right on cue, his eyelids flutter open, blue optics draping warm light over your naked and suddenly too cold body. You hear the familiar whirring of his interface panel and you send him a look of incomparable excitement as you glance from his rapidly pressurizing spike to his flushed face. “Can I?” you ask like a child at an ax throwing competition. His cooling fans flip to their third setting, but he nods cautiously. Mass displacement, for all the three hour and a half explanation he gave you, may be completely off the table with team Prime’s worrying level of energon, but at this point you’re too excited to care. He sets you down in his lap, close enough for you to finally get a good close and personal look at his spike. Fuck human flashing, this thing literally glows with blue biolights, grey and metallic with the same orange accents of his frame. If you had any brain cells left, you’d be tempted to ask him if Cybertronians can cosmetically change the paint of their spikes. Sadly, you’re too busy ogling at his valve to care. You crawl over to it and lean over to look into its upside down vastness like a cave explorer. Not a second later, your 300 IQ brain considers shoving your entire arm up his valve, if only to prove you can be just as good if not better than a Cybertronian in the berthroom (human ego and all). Just as fast as the thought appeared, you’re now batting it away reminding yourself it’s too risky considering its piston mechanism. If it can take a 7 foot tall metal dick, you don’t want to find out how easily those walls can close around you and shatter your radius, ulna and humerus, and possibly turn your muscles into organic mush. Oh shit. Naked and bent over like this he’s definitely gotten a good look at the entirety of your wiggling genitals while you were exploring his open interface panels. Quite the gentleman (and pervert you assume) since he hasn’t mentioned your – ahem, situation until now. Taking it in stride with overinflated confidence, you send a wink his way and immediately shove the tip of his spike into your mouth. If your jaw’s aching is anything to go by, going deep is most unwise – but Ratchet’s startled moan is all you need to go down another inch. Whatever meager trust you’ve instilled in him is your one way to make your giant robot boyfriend overload so hard it cures his resting bitch face. You throw yourself into your work, mandibles threatening to give out as you bob your head up and down not even half of his spike tip. “That’s enough,” he calls out, struggling to regain cognizance from the sound of his straining vocalizer. His warning means well, but at this point you’ve sacrificed too much of your jaw to give up. You take your courage by the dick and go as far as you can without dislocating it, breath cut short by his sheer girth. This, for all its meager worth, is just what he needs. Your remaining brain cell has enough foresight to constrict your larynx when his transfluid shoots down your throat. “Spit it out!” he cries out like an underpaid teacher watching a student shove the class pet into their mouth. “You don’t know what it could do to your biology!” You cough and sputter, but it’s too late, you’ve swallowed it whole. You turn to meet Ratchet who’s looking at you like he’s about to turn into an ambulance and cart you off to the hospital with June on speed dial. “Hopefully get me pregnant,” you say with a wink, batting your eyelashes at the docbot.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Prowl’s spark beams with pride when he looks at you. Eyes wide, gazing up at him with as much trust as you can give.It was your idea, of course, but he’s glad you’ve presented it to him. Humanity sure is strange, but the more he observes its inner workings the more he understands where you’re coming from. By all technicality, you are an animal. A sentient one, of course, and he naturally respects you despite your differences. Although he will like to find his own peace with your short lifespan… He tries not to dwell on it.He’s put you in distress more times than he wants to admit, which must have inadvertently led to your proposal. Over his time on Earth, he’s come to observe and occasionally read up on humanity’s relationship to its bare instincts. From the bottom of their hearts, all humans want to be cared for. As a social species, they crave contact in all its forms and will often support each other during and after having experienced damaging situations. From the dread and solitude one may feel after experiencing a house fire once the adrenaline settles, to the repeated trauma of everyday dangers. They are not made to suffer the same anxieties over a long period of time, else that may lead to irritation and a deteriorating mental state. Many of them tend to lash out, either at themselves or those around them.The bonds humans forge are to keep each other sane, unwinding together and taking care of each other as best they can. From blood relations to friends to lovers, their walls come down just enough to show them at their most vulnerable. It is in this state they crave the security others may offer, baring their necks and sinking their shoulders as they can finally unwind in peace and quiet, often through physical acts of affection.Through this newfound lens, Prowl observes you. You’ve told him it has nothing to do with the danger he brings into your everyday life, but he doubts it – although he doesn’t blame you for denying it, if you even realize how much it’s been impacting your mental well-being. Your eyes are warm and steady on his visor, the collar around your neck carefully set to squeeze as little as possible. Despite this, he can see the soft curvature of your skin where the leather starts and ends. Why humans have collars specifically made for their own kind puzzles him, but he’ll be sure to look into it once Bumblebee relinquishes “the google”.Settled in his lap, he reaches a hand out to stroke your face, and much like what he’s experienced with earth felines, you lean into his touch and close your eyes. You do not purr, but he is sure if he listens closely he can hear the slightest growl of content – he has to stop himself from gushing over his newfound discovery. He gives you a few under chin scritches which have you showing him your entire throat. Ah, the jugular. From what he’s read, great predators often aim for it while lunging at their prey. Yet here you are, showing it to him with wild abandon. He tries to sedate the spark building in his chamber.Clothless on his lap, he’s sure humans have their own connotations for it. After all, he’s only watched you take off your clothes before interface, never while conversing casually or watching the doves build their nests in the park trees. But it’s not until you start subtly rubbing up against his panel that it hits him. Ah. Interface as a form of comfort. Fascinating.Releasing his rapidly pressurizing spike, he leans in to press you up against him, head tucked under his chin, fingers subtly grazing down your back and between your legs. You whine and buck into him, ever eager to take him in, human transfluid dripping in copious amounts for your species.It’s going to be a long solar cycle.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Hold still,” Knock Out tells you while disinfecting a particularly bad gash. He’s been at it for a while now, switching his attention to and from the monitor displaying a wide variety of human skin lesions and wikihow articles on how to treat them properly. You’ve been sitting on the medical table for a while now, feet dangling off the ledge like a child ignoring the safety protocols of the Grand Canyon. If his helm wasn’t on the line, you’re sure he would have gladly slapped you right off the edge himself. Instead, he watches over you with the determination of someone unwilling but forced to keep a cockroach alive no matter how many times it crawls under their shoe. You’ve been to the medical bay enough times to cause Knock Out at least one mental breakdown while the actual Breakdown watched, bewildered, as the Chief Medical Officer tried to make sense of human anatomy despite the tangible disgust he harbors for your organic biology. Eh, you’re probably stretching it – he wouldn’t have silently threatened to squeeze your organs out of your body if he was that disgusted. Although, you must admit, you love when he fusses over you like a mother hen keeping its suicidal chick from repeatedly drowning itself.
Megatron’s handiwork has been especially brutal, not that you mind. Even in his mass-displaced form his strength is unparalleled, it makes you wonder just how much he holds back, how easily he could tear out your jugular with his dentae alone. He is a massive predator, after all, by human and Cybertronian standards. The decision he made to file down his dentae into pointed tips must have skyrocketed his success rate in the pits through sheer intimidation factor. Maybe Cybertronians aren’t exactly known for having evolved a “bite when you’re cornered” reflex like Earth fauna, but you’re pretty damn sure Megatron can bite a chunk out of someone’s chassis if he’s angry enough. You try not to imagine Starscream with enough holes to qualify as a new type of vegan swiss cheese.
Knock Out hasn’t said it to your face, but he’s alluded to sedating you in the medical bay if only to put a stop to your inane talent for sticking limbs you shouldn’t into Megatron’s intake. Alas, you do not give a fuck, and if he has the wrecking balls for it, he’ll have to answer to his leader for his transgressions (and promptly get his interface panel smashed in before he can so much as activate his vocalizer). Checkmate, glitch.
From the furrow of his optical ridge you can tell he’s actively purging any incentive to glance down at your tits and comment on the sheer damage caused to them. This, you’ve grown acquainted with. Call them bazonkers all you want, but these bad girls can only take so much abuse before you start crying. You’ve cursed breast tissue enough times to solidify your distaste for their uselessness outside of child rearing (disregarding sex). It takes a slight graze of Megatron’s dentae against them and you’re already trying to escape your mortal coil from the pain alone. Yes, said pain has made you orgasm. No, you refuse to take a good hard look at yourself and reevaluate what in God’s name is wrong with you.
Megatron by all means isn’t the soothing type. But after having experienced his specific brand of “gentle” brutality he’s grown to watch over your rapidly rising and falling form as you gingerly touch the gashes on your skin. Cybertronians, you’ve learned, can emit a purr similar to an engine (courtesy of Knock Out). Megatron however, having no Earth-based alt-mode, can only produce the dull rumble of Cybertronian aircraft – and that you learned when he scooped you up like a newborn deer and placed you on his chassis for safe-keeping. His servo, claws sharpened to perfection (for the pits, logically), switching between stroking your empty little head trying to make sense of your surroundings and caging your bleeding body under its grip.
Knock Out wacks you over the head with the back of his digit.
“Ow what the fuck?” You snarl.
“Stop daydreaming and show me the insides of your thighs,” he says with the complete lack of amusement of a convenience store clerk asking a customer to stop pushing a pull-door.
“Oh. My bad,” you hiss none-too-apologetically, nonchalantly spreading your legs and letting him figure out the horrorshow any sane human would have fainted experiencing. Except you. Because you have the spite of a cockroach. A flying cockroach aiming for Knock Out’s optic at the speed of light.
In the silence that follows, you can hear his processor drafting his resignation letter.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You can dig your heels into the ground and scream all you want, but there’s no wrenching yourself from their grip.
Pleading didn’t do shit for your cause back then, and it certainly won’t do anything now. The two decepticons took great pleasure in hearing you beg, all self-respect thrown out the window and run over by a semi for good measure. You’re going to be used as target practice for daring to associate with the Autobots, and quite frankly, you’re begging for it at this point. Better a quick and relatively painless death compared to being flung around like a meat puppet to taunt your allies until your nutritional deficiencies catch up to you.
“So Frenzy,” the minicon starts, cocksure grin plastered to his face, “what do you think Soundwave’s gonna do with them?”
“Probs open them up.” He laughs and gives you a good shake, propped under his arm as one would a temperamental toddler. The nausea building in the back of your throat for the past hour is starting to threaten your larynx, encouraged by the sudden jostling and resurfacing fear trying to pry it open with a crowbar.
You’ve seen them from afar more times than you can count, you know deception is part of their namesake and you heard them bullshit their way through battles enough to reinforce their status as pathological liars. Still, what are the chances you won’t be vivisected? People have been going missing for a while, and a small town can harbor so many runaway youths and suicidal senior citizens. You may as well have your insides framed in Megatron’s office – not that it matters when you can do little else than wait on your encroaching demise.
Then he comes into view. The absolute bastard who’s been tracking you down for weeks. How idiotic were you to think attracting his ire wouldn’t lead to devastating consequences even the Autobots couldn’t protect you from! Oh you’ve found that tape recorder douchebag spying on you enough times to lose count, but this? Being brought to him by his cassette lackeys? Oh you’re going to blow a fuse just thinking about it. Then his visor gleams, expressionless face staring right at you and the anger boiling in your veins turns to dry ice. There’s literally nothing you can do now, and for a brief moment you hope to hell and back he’s going to pass you to Megatron even if it entails being skinned alive.
But Soundwave doesn’t work like that. No, no no… he hasn’t been compiling information on you for the sake of defeating the Autobots. You’re human, finite and useless next to the metal behemoths acting as your guardians. This feels too calculated. This feels like he’s been planning it for months, and suddenly you wish he’ll vivisect you if only to stop your thoughts from wandering to what his real intentions may be.
Frenzy sets you down the same way a schoolgirl would a cherished Barbie doll, waiting just enough for your legs to start functioning and brace under your weight before he lets go. Despair chokes your larynx when you notice them sharing a nervous glance. They’ve ordinarily been so casual around their boss, but this right here shows how these devious bastards know enough to feel some sort of pity. And definitely not for an incoming vivisection
“Rumble, Frenzy: Return” comes his warbly digitized voice, sounding every bit wrong and inhuman even by Decepticon standards. The Cassettes, having ascertained something from his tone enough to make them visibly cringe, make no protest and follow his orders.
You could jump and take the plunge if you run past Soundwave, but from experience alone, you know he’s much faster than he looks. Still, you’re willing to take the risk.
You make a dive for it, and fail, spectacularly. Not that you were expecting much. His servos clamp around you and he wrenches you from the ground, now “eye to eye” with the Intelligence Officer.
“Fuck you!” you snarl, baring your teeth like a cornered animal, panic hitting you with full force. You claw and kick and scream at him until your throat runs dry and your nails are bleeding. He waits for you to calm down, wordlessly baiting his time until you exhaust yourself. Finally, you look back at him, disheveled hair and spit trickling down your chin. You don’t have the strength to stop him from brushing a strand of hair from your face.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He was advised to abandon you.Found in the deepest recesses of a Quintesson ship they’d shot down, you were still shaking from the crash. Not Cybertronian. Nor Quintessonian. A completely different being, with soft mesh, warm extremities and strands of something falling from your helm. An animal perhaps? Much like the strange quadrupeds traveling the surface? No, your optics move with intention, taking in your surroundings and wrinkling your optical ridge in clear contemplation. You are incredibly tiny, even next to a cogless miner. He wondered, briefly, when he first saw you, if you were another casualty of Sentinel’s tyranny, a forgotten being he sold off to the Quintessons without a second thought. He does not understand your language, nor can you speak his, but you observe the context and carefully come to associate certain words with objects, actions and designations. You cannot reproduce the subtle tones of Cybertronian with an organic vocalizer, much like the Quintessons – but you do not reject it. You learn to live despite your muteness. Many times he’s watched you draw figures in the sand with a twig the size of your arm, depicting what he could only assume to be a spaceship flying away from a distant planet as the Quintessons surround it. Sometimes you draw more of your kind, together in an embrace. You would stand over your creation, watching wistfully as the wind erased the fine traces of sand. A memory of your people. He wishes he could tell you about him and Orion, the pain of losing him, the crater in his chassis that will never mend – but guilt keeps him at bay. Soon enough, your provisions will run out. What they found on the Quintesson ship were rations made for your specific type of biology, with no guide to recreate them from, not even Shockwave could reverse-engineer the process. It’s simply too late. One orbital cycle, your life will come to an end, but he will give you the dignity of dying at his hands, painlessly. He is no stranger to starvation, but unlike him, you must refuel at various intervals during an orbital cycle, else he senses how you grow restless on his shoulder, fiddling with your servos, mesh growing pale and optics sluggish, growls emanating from your inner mechanism. You are not made for suffering Your life will come to an end, and you know this better than any other Decepticon; as though reading his thoughts behind the permanent scowl scratched into his face. Perhaps this is why he indulges in you even if he’s been advised against it. You’re eager despite your size, pressing yourself against his frame, ignoring your discomfort. He’s still getting used to his new body, including his strength for better or for worse. Yet you do not fault him when he leaves bruises. You kiss him and rub up against his spike, transfluid trickling down to his valve even before he comes undone. You squirm and laugh and pull him into a hug, helm to helm, a moment so perfect he’s ready to rip the cog from his chassis if it means staying like this forever, servos clenched into fists as he curses at Primus for the happiness he will shatter.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You've grown used to itSomeway, somehow, it doesn't feel as bad. A few months ago, you would have rather died than allowed it to happen. But now, you're too tired to do anything about it. Kick yourself all you want, you can't force flight or fight. You've run out of adrenaline.The human mind isn't designed to withstand constant stress; you notice the threat, you run, you fight, you freeze or you allow yourself to be molded by it. The alarms blaring in your head have shut off, leaving you numb and exhausted with nothing to rely on.You've been waiting for so long for the Autobots to reach you, but it's like you never existed. Are you this forgettable ? A no-one with the misfortune of meeting Gods? You are no Paris, no Perseus and certainly no Achilles; not even a meager soldier. You're a background character in your own life, meant to be overlooked and eventually forgotten.“So why…” you want to ask, “why did you notice me?He handled you gently despite your aggression, even as your insults turned vicious, he ignored your desperate attempts to hurt him.The dread caused by the mere echo of his synthesized voice has disappeared altogether, lending a new strange sort of comfort that beyond all logic should not exist.Yes, you are trapped. But is it so wrong to trade your freedom for recognition? He listens to you no matter how boring and one sided your conversations get. He offers you a generous (although limited) access to your favorite media; obscure shows he shouldn't know about, movies on your private watch list, and plenty of books, most from your old apartment. You still recognize their faded pages and worn out covers.You don't have to attend your 9 to 5 white-collar job anymore. Your office cubicle is empty if not outright replaced, your place in the company has never mattered and so does your fate. Why can't you let yourself be happy?Your basic needs are met, you have more time than ever to focus on what you love, and you have access to much needed social interactions.At first it was Laserbeak assuming sentry duty, standing guard in Soundwave’s quarters, watching you like a hawk. You must admit , you've made a wild dash for the exit countless times, only to have Laserbeak dive between you and the door, wings spread out and snapping his beak.But you've mellowed out over time. Laserbeak switched to Ravage. Ravage switched to Buzzsaw. Buzzsaw switched to Rumble and Frenzy. Soon enough, you started watching your series with them; Laserbeak perched upon the edge of the couch, Ravage curled up at your feet, Buzzsaw lying next to you or Rumble and Frenzy casually hanging out on your couch like roommates.It shouldn’t be that hard to accept. You're fine. You're part of their fucked up little family – if you can even call it that. Soundwave carries you around like a beloved pet, the other Decepticons treating it so casually you wonder if you're the only human they own. If Megatron is bothered by his Communications Officer’s behavior, he shows no sign of it.This is fine. Being around Soundwave makes you feel secure in yourself, because he cares about you. And if this is the only love being offered to you, you’ll gladly take it. Past you would have abhorred your actions, but that version of you is long dead and buried.You let him have sex with you.It started off small; lingering touches, digits ghosting over skin you’d never let anyone else see. When he entered you, you felt complete, like he was your missing piece, and you became at peace with your own being. A single one of his digits filled you to the brim, unlike your old dildo. It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt, a burning sensation as he stretched you open, having you clench around him like a virgin. He patiently worked you up until you came, delicately circling the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs with the tip of his massive thumb.When you opened your eyes, he was leaning over you, spike fully pressurized. You welcomed it against your entrance, stroking it between your spread legs until your inexperienced mouth brought his overload, coating your stomach in transfluid.“I love you,” you said, unsure of your own reality.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Okay, perfect!”You jog up to Soundwave, who’s just so slightly tilting his helm to look down at you. There’s child-like glee in your eyes as you watch the tentacle rotate at a pace you’re all too familiar with. Your lips quirk into a smile.None of the cons have called them tentacles, they’ve actually referred to them as cables. Why none of them have these cables, you’re not sure. Asking Soundwave about it won’t bring you an answer (knowing him, he’ll just respond with one of the many memes you’ve introduced him to, probably “wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy” or the shrug lenny face). You’re sure some kind of surgery was involved if he’s the only one with them. There are other seekers. There are other ex-miners like Megatron turned gladiators turned warlords (even if he’s the warlord everyone knows about). Soundwave? Yeah, nah. He’s the only bot in existence cosplaying as a Gundam in a cyberpunk eroge.The soft gym mat padding at your feet ensures you won’t crack your skull open on the hard-as-steel floor of the Nemesis, at least in case Slenderwave over there can’t catch you in time. Which you doubt.You walk over to the tentacle-pole, gaze switching between Babewave and the tendril lighting up his dark habsuite. By the looks of it, his biolights have joined in as well, their dim glow having turned into a parade of lights not unlike a strip club. You’re not sure if it’s on purpose and he’s being a cheeky bastard about it, or if he’s so excited he can't help himself. “Thanks, Sounders. I really appreciate it.” He gives you a slight nod, his biolights growing brighter and his cooling fans switching on. It’s setting number one, but they’ll reach number five by the time you’re done with him. You put a hand to the tentacle pole and spare him one last glance. “You ready?” you ask, steeling yourself for the first act. His visor flashes you the most pathetic, soaking wet emoji with the biggest eyes you've ever seen. That's a new one. And also the closest he's come to begging. “Alrighty!” You wrap your leg around the pole, bracing yourself with both hands, and arch your remaining leg in a near perfect V. Your muscles are screaming at you to stop, but Soundwave is displaying the surprised Pikachu meme in 4k. “Wow,” you think to yourself, slightly trembling against the pole. “How can I not fuck him?”Your sweaty palms reply “Yeah, how can you not fuck him?” as they ditch you, causing you to reel back, squeeze your leg around the tentacle like it’s going to save your sorry ass, then almost careen to the floor. “Fuck this,” your brain says as it automatically shuts your eyes and braces for the imminent impact.Three.Two.One.No impact.Hesitantly, you open them. It’s Soundwave, your knight in shining armor, effortlessly holding you by the waist with a spare tendril. You would be thanking him if it wasn’t for the surprised captain Kirk meme generated on his screen. “Oh.” You blink. He stares. You blink again. He stares harder.“Can you put me down?” you ask 100% convinced he won’t.He shakes his head.Damn.He takes a seat in his gaming chair, as you call it, perpetually placed at least 10 feet away from his monitor so he can get actual work done without straining the hinges of his abnormally long arms. Then, like the hentai mascot he is, he sets you in his lap, staring you down expectantly.Funny how a lack of facial expression is way more intimidating than whatever Starscream is trying to convey with his deer in headlights optics. If he didn’t have his eyebrows, he would look almost cute for a 27 foot metal bird of death. After being around Soundwave 24/7 for the last six months of your life, you’ve come to distinguish his silent communication. There’s angry silence where his digits stiffen, sad silence when his shoulders just barely sag, smug silence when he tilts his head a whole 180 degrees, and horny silence when he stares you down in his lap.Oh.Oh no.You grin like an idiot, throwing off your clothes like the world’s busiest strip-teaser. Settling just over his interface panel, you wait breathlessly as it opens up and out comes his rapidly pressurizing spike, the length of it finding its way between your thighs. You thank Primus Himself it doesn’t shoot up and catapult you off his crotch and into the steel wall, “Okay…” you shift against him, engulfed by the soft heat of his questionably tentacle-like apparatus. If it wasn’t so stiff you’d qualify it as a stray tentacle cosplaying a deep sea internet cable. You’re about to turn it into a slip n’ slide.Lost in the sauce of his maybe-tentacle/maybe-spike/maybe deep-sea wire, you eagerly part your legs when one of his long digits pokes at your entrance. “You're doing great, Sounders,” you say against his abdominal plating, barely articulating from the digit buried inside of you. Thank fuck his fingers are slender enough to fit, if they weren't you would have died grinding against his spike. You give him a thumbs up as though to say “Don’t worry! You haven’t pierced any of my internal organs yet”. A heart flashes over his visor, biolights pulsing in content, closer to a late night arcade than a strip club, or maybe a very modern Chuck E. Cheese… As his digit returns to its steady pace, you scream inside when his other servo comes to pet your hair. You waste no time fighting the urge to press yourself against it like a touch-starved cat in heat. His head tilts slightly in a “that's so cute” motion without interrupting the moment with a meme (last time you almost fell over laughing). “Fuck,” you hiss as his digit brushes against sensitive nerves you’ve never reached on your own. You arch your back despite your trembling thighs, readjusting your grip on his spike, palming the tip as best as you can while something builds up inside of you.His biolights flicker with delight when your walls clench around him. Once, twice, thrice. It keeps going as he draws it out of you, dragging across something inside of you that has your toes curling and mouth gaping wide. In a moment of clarity you realize; Soundwave is going to add this to his orgasm compilation. And no matter how much you hate him for it, you can’t protest when he’s making you see Primus with one digit alone.The servo petting you has moved down to rub circles around his anterior node. Soon enough, he overloads all over his abdomen, digit continuing to pump into you at a merciless pace until his afterglow fades enough to take mercy upon your human soul. You look up at him with bleary eyes.“Babewave…” you say, already tearing up. “Please don’t turn my orgasm face into an ahegao meme.”His response is a drawn out silence… followed by a flash of your ahegao face taking up his entire visor.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Are you alright?”“Of course I am! Why would you think otherwise?” he snarks, puffing up like a disgruntled cockatiel.You squint and look him up and down with the most “dude, just admit it” expression you can muster.He glares at you for what feels like ages, ridiculous brow plates knitted into a ridiculous “fucking try me” V.You sigh, take off the welding mask and put down the torch. “I’m worried about you.”Those very same brow plates shoot up to the sky.“Pah! I don’t need your worry!” he scoffs like he isn’t bleeding out in the middle of the woods.“Sure you don’t, but I’ll have you know there’s only so much I can do! We should call Ratchet.”His fist slams to the ground, you stumble but manage to catch yourself before falling face first into the deadly spikes adorning his stiletto. Death by high heel isn’t on your “appropriately ironic deaths” list, but you should add it.If your brain didn’t sloshed inside your skull like a snowglobe in the hands of a petulant two year old, you could have sworn the mighty ex-commander of the Decepticons looked apologetic for a split second.“I would rather not deal with the likes of the Autobot medic,” he declares in a slightly softer voice, although not without his usual amount of scorn. “After all, you’re doing just fine,” he croons in a sly, buttering tone.Maybe you could have believed him if he hadn’t been constantly berating you for fucking up the impromptu surgery. You are not a medic, goddammit! Much less well-versed in the art of welding shut a metal alien from a planet light years away! You’re just some car junky with pyromaniac inclinations!But seeing him this way… covered in grime and energon, wings hanging low and servos shaking. You’re glad you didn’t send him to voicemail.You pat his leg. “Thanks, but if this happens again I’m calling Bulkhead to haul your ass back to base whether you like it or not.” Putting on your welding mask, you keep working. Starscream stays oddly quiet, not even bothering to beep at you indignantly when your torch falls out of line. It’s no Picasso, but the bleeding has stopped.After you step back to give him some space, he tests out his leg, standing up and shifting his weight from side to side. The injured leg strains but does not collapse.“Good?” you ask.“Manageable,” he mumbles in his typical “it kinda sucks but I have to be grateful” way.Pride fills you up like a single mom downing martinis during happy hour. Although not the best compliment, it’s a Ritz-Carlton coming from him.“Do you want to go back to base? Or just… hang out here? In the middle of the woods?” He wrinkles his optical ridge at you but doesn’t answer.“Okay,” you drawl out, taking a seat on possibly the most comfortable rock in Nevada. Years pass by – or so it feels like – waiting for the usually extremely bitchy (thus chatty) bot to break the silence.He does not.“I think I should go,” you sit up and thumb at your car, parked all the way across the woods on the main road, a good hike from where you’re currently at.“ Don’t ,” he hisses. His expression is almost… forlorn if not for his angry brows.Oh fuck off, the emotionally constipated airplane war criminal can’t ask you to hang out without hurting his pride. Which makes you the responsible adult of the situation compared to the billion year old metal chicken. And by God, you are the least responsible person you know (excluding Starscream).So you sit your ass back down and lock eyes with said chicken. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened?” you ask, fully expecting him to shut you down by calling you fleshling and waving your humanity over your head like a shitty “begone” charm.Instead, he thinks about it, averting his gaze from you and turning it to the vast wilderness beyond you.“Vehicons,” he states bitterly. “Either it was a purely coincidental dogfight or… Megatron is after me.” His whole frame shudders, wings sinking as low as they can go."I see.” You pause to take a deep breath. “Do you want to tell the Autobots?”He shakes his helm and loosens a self-deprecating chuckle from his vocalizer. “Like they would listen to me.”You scrunch up your nose. “How about I tell them? Would that be easier for you?”His optics widen for a brief moment before returning to their perpetually conniving state. “I’m not delighted with the option, but it’s preferable considering their propensity for gathering unsolicited information.”The silence returns.“Hey, I know it’s not the best time to bring this up. But you don’t even have to answer, just please hear me out.”He peers at you wordlessly.“You’ve been through-” you gesture at dry neon blue energon adorning his frame “-a lot lately. I’m not asking you to talk about your feelings or anything like that, but if you ever need someone to just… be around, I’m here.”His expression hasn’t shifted one bit. It’s completely unreadable.You continue on with gritted teeth. “Personally, I’ve never defected from an extremely violent faction and been hunted down through the sky, but I find it’s easier to suffer around friends and family. They help shoulder the pain.”He arches a metal brow. “Are you implying we’re friends?”“I mean-” you stammer, “I definitely consider you a friend. If you don’t, that’s fine, I’m not forcing you or anything. To each their own. But that’s beside the point-”A lengthy chuckle cuts you off.“Does a friend answer their comm in the middle of the night cycle and perform surgery with sub-optimal tools?”You’re not sure if he’s insulting you or trying to make a meaningful point. Maybe both.“If so,” he continues, lips quirking into an intimidating but somehow genuine smile, “we are friends.”Your brain flatlines.“Oh,” you whisper. “OH,” it hits you like an F-15 Fighting Falcon at full speed. “I… okay. So, um, if you want to hang out and stuff, I can stick around until five o’clock. Then I’ll have to leave and get ready for work.”“Good enough,” he scoffs good-naturedly, having returned to his bitchy old self with slightly less bitchiness. But the smile he doesn’t bother hiding betrays something deeper.Starscream is your friend.Starscream called himself your friend.Holy shit, you think you’re going to have an aneurysm.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Something is terribly wrong and you know it.
You’ve been shown only kindness until now, but there’s a dread hanging over your head like the sword of Damocles. Some part of your ingrained instinct knows this is a trap, but what can you do when, in person, he’s treated you with utmost kindness? You know the rumors, you’ve seen the tapes, the pictures, the news broadcasts showing you undoctored footage of what he’s done to your kind.
And yet, your brain refuses to believe it. Be it some kind of self-protective measure to cope with your current circumstances, or pure idiocy on your part – it doesn’t matter in the end. You’re here, of your own volition no less, at the Autobot leader's side overlooking the vast array of data at your disposal. It’s an easy distraction. How can it not be? Architecture unlike anything you’ve ever seen, technology you can’t even begin to wrap your mind around, towering monoliths of the Golden Age and libraries larger than human countries. He’s told you so much during these last couple of days, about his old life as a clerk – a glorified librarian from what you understand – translating codes into writing and filing through endless documents. How his life changed when he met a gladiator from the pits of Kaon, nameless until the crowds bestowed upon him the title Megatronus, after one of the thirteen primes. How they saw corruption in the system and aimed to change it, only for their alliance to fall apart.
Betrayal isn’t something you’ve experienced on his level, but you can empathize with him, let him know you
care
about him, and he
does
appreciate it. Appreciate
you
. Nothing you offer can measure up to their kind, yet he gazes upon you with a special warmth in his optics.
Shame used to make you sick to the core when it started, brain going into overdrive and screaming at you to book it out of there whenever he touched you. Sometimes, you flinched, and he would pull back and mutter a low but earnest apology. He gave you space to adjust, and despite every instinct tearing you away from him, you made the effort to relax your muscles and unclench your jaw.
And you’re happy. So very happy you accepted him in spite of the terror consuming you. It feels good to be handled so gently by a giant; metal digits gliding over your body with utmost care, pressing into the softness between your legs and rubbing until you see stars. You’ve fucked yourself with his spike and valve more times than you care to admit, collapsing after the umpteenth orgasm. Then, shivering from pleasure, you would meet his unyielding gaze, something burning inside his optics that was the furthest thing from respect. It vanished, yes, it always did, but it didn’t change what you saw. You want to say it was something else, some personal frustration slipping through at the wrong moment, anything to justify the contempt you witnessed. The more you focus on it, the worse it gets.
Is it so wrong to choose ignorance? To look the truth in the face and avert your eyes?
You must be mistaken, even with all evidence at the tip of your fingers, it must be something else. Maybe he’s more dominant than he lets on and he conceals it to be polite. Maybe he gets a kick out of humiliating you in bed, even if it’s just in his processor. Or maybe… you never meant anything from the start and this is some twisted experiment.
Does ignoring it make you a horrible person? You know of his actions, heck, you saw them second hand. But it doesn’t feel like he’s capable of committing these atrocities. Thinking about it already has your heart hammering against your ribcage and blood rushing to your ears. You can’t keep doing this. You just can’t.
It’s either your brain shuts down the intrusive thoughts or you dig deeper.
And by God, you don’t want to look for something you can’t unsee.
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Knock Out is well-versed in the drag and frag technique. He’s probably one of the youngest members on the Nemesis, still old as balls by our standards, but some rebellious youngin’ by theirs. He’s all about sliding in with a smooth pickup line and buttering you up until he reaches the “let’s get down to business” level, where he starts flashing his biolights in a “come hither and frag me” display.When it comes to human kissing, he’s… improvising to say the least. He’s seen humans make out in a wide variety of drive-through horror movies (many with questionable acting), and while he doesn’t “get” why we do it, he does his best to lean into the act and find what makes it so pleasurable by our standards. When you do kiss him for the first time, he’s already been hyping himself up for months, and whatever smoothness he tries to apply immediately disintegrates because oh fuck, your lips are so small and he has so much to give. He’s absolutely suffering despite the confident front he’s putting up. After absolutely fumbling the bag, he’ll ask you how he did.“Mid,” you’re tempted to say. But the hopefulness behind those smug optics stops you in your tracks.Starscream must have had a very confusing interface life even by Cybertronian standards. But there’s no way he didn’t get frisky back when he was Air Commander of Vos, even if the workload was immense. Although that’s probably the most action he got in his entire life, and even then the closest equivalent to “kissing” by their standards is merging EM fields and hoping for the best, a careful manipulation of wavelengths to fall into perfect sync.We humans do not possess a hyper-developed EM field, which is enraging for Starscream because what do you mean you smash intakes??? Mass-displaced or not, the only fluids he accepts in his intake are energon and transfluid, thank you very much. Kissing is a bad idea, and you’ve learned it the hard way, so good job! Now you have to deal with his drama queen ass acting like you just spit in his mouth. Worst thing is, he is interested in trying it again, but with his stipulations (aka watching him fail to figure out how to kiss you). He doesn’t even fail in a funny way, he’s so bad it’s concerning, you’re half tempted to contact Knock Out and blackmail him into sending you Starscream’s medical file.
Megatron was… surprisingly abstinent back on Cybertron. Yes, he’s been around for a long time. Yes, he used to be a gladiator at some point. And yes, it had its perks, but he was always more of a “sensitive spark” than a typical casanova. He had more important things to focus on at the time (mainly surviving the pits of Kaon and, before that, not offlining in a freak mining accident). Honestly, who knows what he did as a politician, whatever freakiness he had going on while trying to depose the government is none of our business and I am totally not typing this with a fusion cannon to my head.
He’s been through so much; fought countless beasts and fellow gladiators, avoided assassination attempts and blood-thirsty mutinies while leading a millennia-long war. Nothing can surprise him anymore. Yes, you’re a weird little freak for smashing intakes with him, but you need not fear for your safety. He’s… intrigued by your display of affection. You can mumble excuses all you want, but you’ve smashed intakes with him and it can’t be undone. Watch out for those sharp teeth and prepare a tetanus shot just in case. You have to deal with the consequences of your actions whether you like it or not, especially when he’s got a claw under your shirt and another down your pants. Your lips are bleeding and you pray it’s an accident, if he gets a taste for human blood you’re done for.
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There are greater things to worry about.His workload has been immense ever since he took over from Powered Convoy Magnus, but why, dare he ask, do you overtake his processor every cycle?He regrets how he’s treated you in the past, perceived you as other because of your organic nature. You remained steadfast despite being overlooked, keeping your helm up and showing remarkable dignity and patience in the face of their adversity. Perhaps it’s what initially drew him to you, the fearlessness in your optics when you met his unfaltering gaze.You’ve become much more than an ambassador to them. To him. The members of the Elite Guard have accepted you as their own; he’s caught glimpses of you conversing with Jazz as one would a fellow Cybertronian, or holding your own against Sentinel’s poorly concealed animosity. And yet, in spite of your familiarity with each other, his spark pulsates with awe whenever you arrive in his office to bring him a new report (often accompanied by one of his subordinates).He’s grateful you’ve grown comfortable around him, enough to let him carry you in his servo to admire the sites of Iacon. It’s your role and privilege as ambassador to experience what Cybertron offers. But behind your optics you know there is more to his hospitality. And perhaps he should be ashamed of himself for pulling back and leaving you to discern his intentions.The affection you have for each other is far greater than he expected and he’s come to accept your human cravings, even if his responsibilities as a Magnus will always take precedence over them.Interfacing has evolved throughout the vorns, he’s watched as it morphed from simple cable play into something… more organic in appearance. Nowadays, upgrades and frame modifications have become a staple of the younger generation. It’s unlike him to lie, but he simply cannot admit he had an interface panel installed in the hopes of… making himself desirable to your biology. Of course, you don’t seem to mind, only arching your optical ridge in surprise at the revelation of his spike. There are countless models of all shapes and sizes, and he made sure to pick out the one most appropriate for your kind. Still, he fears it may be too large by your standards.When you climb into his lap, he does not protest or question your determination. The spike is coated in a natural lubricant, which you’ve already caught onto, wrapping your servos around his member in an almost teasing manner that has him suppressing a shudder through gritted teeth. The new sensations it brings are a far cry from cable play and spark merging, sending a surge of heat so intense through his fuel lines his cooling vents switch on to their highest setting.You flash a cheeky smile and roll your optics at him, pressing your intake to his spike and running your glossa over the tip. It takes all of his willpower not to buck into your intake – he will never forgive himself if he hurts you during such an intimate act. The charge building up in his system is far greater than he’s ever experienced, consuming him to his core.This time, he cannot suppress a breathy shudder when you sit yourself on his spike, nor a tremor of his frame when you grind your hips into him. You sink lower and lower, taking him so deep his optics are flickering. A relieved ex-vent escapes you, and you look up at him with adoration so intense his spark surges in his chassis.He begins to wonder if you’ve readied yourself for the occasion, perhaps procuring your own false spike in an attempt to fit his? His system is begging to grab hold of your body and release his charge into it, but you deserve more than a simple frag. You deserve so much more than he can give you, even as a Magnus.His digits dig into his berth as you set a merciless pace, pulling away then sinking back, riding his spike until his optics start glitching, earning a sharp groan from his vocalizer he can barely recognize. You continue the onslaught beyond his overload, continuing to bounce up and down his member with pink transfluid trickling between your thighs; finally, you reach your own climax, taking his spike to the hilt. Your walls clench around him with such ferocity his optics go offline. The charge build up explodes in one last overload that has his entire frame shaking.When he comes to, you’ve dismounted him, lying on your stomach with your legs kicking out behind you, servos supporting your chin as you catch his gaze and smile.“So about Sentinel’s report-”
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You are a precious thing, gazing up at him with naive trust. What started off as a temporary experiment has turned into a unique pet project. Useless to the Decepticon cause, yet irreplaceable to him. You quietly sit in his lap during meetings, arching your back to meet the digit petting your helm as his commanders avert their optics from your tiny frame. The presence of his beloved pet on the Nemesis is disquieting to his troops, and he delights in their discomfort, savoring the jitters of their EM fields whenever they catch sight of you.Recently however, the soft pulse of unease has turned into a low but intrusive buzzing.The sweet smell of your arousal is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. In two meager cycles you've become a quivering mess, loins begging for friction. There's no denying it, you've reached your reproductive cycle. When he brushes a digit over your cheek, you're burning with desire, sheepishly avoiding his gaze as you struggle to contain your eagerness and avoid rubbing up against his servo.Is this why the Autobots are fond of humanity? To indulge their sweet heat cycles? How many human mates has Optimus taken for himself? It seems as though their motives to protect the natives were never altruistic, much less noble.When he strokes the wetness between your legs, you buck into him, euphoria carved into your soft features. He entertains your instincts, holds you down and frags you with a digit until you overload. The sounds you make are to offline for. He decides at that very moment you are worth the energon he's about to waste.Mass displacement has seen its uses during the war, but the drawbacks among a shortening supply of energon has rendered it volatile and thoughtlessly wasteful. Yet, under these circumstances it proves more than necessary.You are no Cybertronian, but the softness of your flesh renders your differences obsolete. The transfluid welcoming his spike sends a wave of charge down his spinal struts. You grip his servo, desperate for more than you can take.“Eager for my spike, pet?” he purrs as he nuzzles your neck.Your scent is endurable for his species, but he cannot deny its intoxicating properties. How many other humans have you mated with? He cannot imagine anyone resisting the sweetness of your loins. Your entrance struggles to take a spike of his size, and yet it swallows him with an eagerness he cannot bear to lose. It makes his spark radiate with pride.The adoration in your optics sends a new jolt of charge to his member. You cup his face in your servos and kiss him harshly, scrambling to satisfy your all-consuming hunger, his sharp denta dangerously close to your lips.He frags you slow and steady, savoring the noises you make as you desperately cling onto his frame, digits finding seams in his plating and burying themselves in the soft mesh of his protoform. A hiss loosens from his vocalizer, optics narrowing as the charge breaches his limitsIt takes all of his self-control to stop himself from destroying your poor human interface. Still, he frags you like never before, hard and fast, slamming his hips into you with enough force to bruise. You cry out, hardly an innocent party, clenching around him until your little body is full of his transfluid.When he pulls back, you’re shaking under him like a glitch mouse caught between a cybercat’s paws. It’s enough to pull the scarred corners of his lips into a smile. He reaches out a servo to languidly stroke your cheek, and he allows you to grab hold of it and place a tender kiss to his palm. His spike twitches inside of you, transfluid pooling between your legs. And yet, you haven’t stopped bucking against him.A squeak escapes your voice box when he wrenches you against him and buries himself up to the hilt. Evidently, one round isn’t enough for your kind; humans are no better than beasts in heat. But if you want to be bred, who is he to refuse? You grip onto him as though the Nemesis is about to crash.On a purely biological level, you are completely incompatible. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from craving something more. A hypothetical seed he yearns to plant inside of your frame, one you will carry graciously, for you have lent him your very being.Overload after overload, he has left you a shivering mess, servos balled up into fists as you fruitlessly attempt to steady your tremors. He smiles against your neck, servo forcefully keeping your thighs spread while his digits scoop up stray transfluid and stuff it back into your insatiable body.
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How must it feel to burn from the inside out? Betrayed by your own body, rendered unable to function by the fire in your core.
You described it as an aching, an insatiable need to appease the hormones overtaking your nerve endings. A mere touch is enough to worsen the ache, it’s what your body dictates in the throes of a heat cycle.
Cybertronians are forged by Primus Himself, their interfaces exist for recreational pleasure and bonding, but your species is biologically programmed to reproduce, like most of the fauna of your planet. It’s a systemic sacrifice, one rendered obsolete by the sentient status of your species. Drugs have been produced to suppress your heats, or at least lessen the effects. Unfortunately, among a dozen varieties of medication, you are either allergic or completely immune to them, leaving you susceptible to your hormonal whims.
He is sorry.
You must go through so much pain every few months, but you barely show it, brushing off his concerns with a laugh, saying “it is what it is” and moving on as though your body isn’t on a timer. He admires you for it. In spite of your discomfort, you haven’t given up. Once, you told him: “So what if they don’t work on me? I just gotta roll with the punches and hope for the best, it’s been my M.O. since I got the damn thing.”
Meeting them for the first time… was turbulent to say the least, but you’re safe and sound, relocated to Jasper, having adjusted to your new life with the help of Agent Fowler. You’ve told them many times you’re infinitely grateful to be in their lives (barring the near death experience at the servos of an Insecticon).For them it’s a pleasure to ease your burden. You’ve eagerly established your consent, although only Arcee is the right size to properly take care of a human. Digits and glossas can only do so much compared to a spike. He tries not to pry, your privacy is yours to divulge at your leisure, but he cannot ignore the charge building up behind his interface when he sees you with the others. Yes, he is an occasional participant, but he will rather cover shifts and allow them some well-deserved respite in your berth. They deserve it. He dares not imagine Arcee’s spike pumping in and out of you, satiating your aching body, filling you to your limit as you beg for more.
Your scent lingers in the air, caressing his sensors, a gentle hand tugging him along by the servo, pulling him in your direction. They try to keep it to themselves, but his team is beyond a doubt intoxicated by your presence alone. Thankfully, it has (almost) never impeded their judgment during missions; perhaps it has even served as motivation to make it back to base in one piece.He tries to ignore the gleam in his old friend’s optics after quelling your urges, if only for a night. Or Bumblebee's praises coming to you as a slow stream of beeps while he nuzzles your face. Or Bulkhead cradling you to his chassis like a precious artifact as you discuss what late night movies you should watch. Or catching Arcee kissing you over the mezzanine and pulling back with a smile she hasn’t worn since Cliffjumper’s death. You bring them together in your own special way, even if you blush and sheepishly deny it, claiming you should be thanking them instead
Recent discoveries have yielded an impressive increase in energon and brought forth new opportunities. With unparalleled quantities at their disposal, they can now mass displace. The transformation is no small feat, it exhausts their system and rapidly drains their energon level. But he will not forbid Bumblebee from using it to play with the kids as long as it’s not in excess. Nor to join you during heat cycles. Much like Bulkhead. And Wheeljack. And especially Ratchet. Primus forbid, his old friend has every right to enjoy himself to the fullest after all of his back-breaking work.
He’s been meaning to pay you a visit, but he hasn’t found the time until now. In the temporary abode you set up in the base, away from the prying eyes of the kids, you prepare yourself for another heat. Some refurbishing was done to meet your needs (in no small thanks to June Darby and agent Fowler’s financial help); the mattress and the mini fridge was a given, but you’ve added a variety of personal belongings and entertainment; a television, a writing desk, a few “bean bags” here and there, and a pile of old magazines to scrapbook. He wonders if you consider this place your home more than your actual house in Jasper.
You greet him while downing a bottle of water, holding up your hand to signal for him to wait. Once emptied, you place it next to the mini fridge, among a wide array of bottled water crates. That would explain the groceries June brought in with Arcee’s help. As a medical professional she’s especially fretful over your condition, doing her best to prevent the risks of heat cycles, bringing you plenty of calorie dense fuel to combat the massive loss of nutrients. He has not forgotten the fear they experienced when they found you shaking from the deficit, having completely overlooked your hunger in a midst of desperation.
In this form, he can appreciate the full extent of your body without fear of hurting you, kneading the supple flesh beneath his digits as you giggle and pull him into you. He does not tower over your reclined form as much as he encases you in a careful hug, hearing the rapid thrum of your human spark directly against his audials; he may sense your pulse rate, but experiencing it is a new wonder of its own. You tell him you missed him and you wish he would let himself go and come out to “obliterate your pussy” more often. He nods and apologizes for his absence even as you shush him and insist he enjoy himself as well.
He is… the largest Cybertronian you’ve taken, you remark while adjusting to his size.
“Except maybe Wheeljack,” you add cheekily, already bucking into him.
Your composure evaporates as he works you up, not to say that he is much better. He steadies himself over you, charge trickling down his interface as your walls clench around him in a vice-grip. You beg him for more, plead that he frag you until you can’t take it anymore, but he has grown used to your requests and knows when your body has reached its limit. You whimper and claw at his back plates, flush against his frame yet dragging him closer as though to merge your human spark to his.
If only he could.
Slow and steady, he frags you through your overloads, each one adding a new surge of spark down his frame until he comes to his end. You are small and shaking, but in this form he can properly hold you against his chassis and comfort you through the afterglow, bringing you another bottle of water and a Clif bar (chosen for the human scaling a mountain with “If you eat this you can kill God” in big bold letters).
You stir and sit up on shaky knees to accept his offerings. Halfway through your meal, you eye him up and down.
“Are you going to stay some more?” you ask with hopefulness, still chewing on the “ultimate nuts and banana power” concoction advertised on the packaging.
“I’m afraid not, Ratchet has been hard at work deciphering Decepticon encryptions, I will be taking on his duties for the night,” he tries to break it gently, expecting crushed expectations, not your bemused expression looking up at him.
“So you’re sending him my way?” You give a chuckle. “Wish we could have spent more time together, but work is work. Just…” you crawl into his lap and hug him as tight as you can, head resting against his chassis. “Please come back tomorrow. Or after tomorrow. I miss seeing you this way. I won’t get between you and… whatever you have going on, but please visit me more often. You have no idea how nice it feels to be around you.”His gaze softens, glowing faintly against your hair.“So I’ve been told,” he says, a smile on his lips. “As long as it lightens your burden.”
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Lord Megatron’s reasoning for placing the hidden camera in your berthroom is none of Soundwave’s concern. His master's intentions are not to be questioned.Your status among the Decepticons is that of a pampered pet, as his Master stated. You fit right into their palms, allowing yourself to be stroked; occasionally leaning into the affection, pressing your helm against their servos like Laserbeak after a hard cycle’s work.You’re unbothered by their near constant cajoling, taking it in stride and ignoring their teasing by wrapping yourself around their digits in a cute (and often successful) attempt to fluster them into silence. But Megatron never reacts, only tilting your chin with a war frame claw and promising things Soundwave would rather not recall (but does so with delight).As any other human, you are affected by biologically programmed heat cycles. Under normal circumstances, he would have solved the problem at its source by procuring you the right medication. However, his Lord had other plans.Over the millenia, they have encountered many sentient organic species (some of which they helped extinguish), but none have experienced a chemical drive to breed as intensely as humans. You are well aware of your weakness, having lent yourself over to Megatron from the very beginning before they discovered your reproductive cycle. His Lord savored you to the last drop, indulging you with his glossa and digits until he gave in to your pleas and offered up his spike.What Megatron does with the energon the vehicons have rusted their hinges extracting from the mines is none of Soundwave’s business, especially if it makes him a hypocrite. He has experienced your heat, as have the other members of high command; even common officers in their ranks like Knock Out and Breakdown. With energon in short supply, they rarely get the chance to satisfy your needs to a full extent. Except for… Airachnid, whom Megatron knows too well and limits her access as a show of power (and possibly envy).Even when there isn’t enough to mass displace, Soundwave wishes he could stay with you forever as you hiss and groan, writhing in his grip to take as much of his digit as you can; a sight to behold, a memory he’s recorded every tryst.As the Intelligence Officer, he has much footage to review and data to collect, often leaving him extremely busy when your heats reach their peak. Although, as the Intelligence Officer, he has access to each individual camera on the Nemesis (and some beyond it), including the one hidden in what some have come to call “the breeding room”. As ominous as it sounds, it’s a simple berthroom with basic amenities Lord Megatron leaves you in when he’s too occupied to attend to your cravings. It’s fitted for your specific comfort, with enough water and fuel to last an orbital cycle and private washing racks to clean off. You are Megatron’s pet, and while they may see you in his lap every meeting, they do not receive any proper access until their Master relinquishes you at his leisure.Soundwave has found great deal of pleasure in documenting your visitors through the access point in his processor. The monotonous mining footage is scraping off pieces of his neuronet density groon after groon. He may be vigilant to interruptions of scheduled extractions, but he can multitask just fine with your body in view of the camera. You’re refueling on the tiny mattress on top of the visitor berth, occasionally stopping to wipe the excess moisture off your brow. There’s a tremor to your frame, one that announces a fulfilling viewing experience
4/06 07;62;02;01
Starscream is the first to join you. A rare sight to behold. He’s been especially uneasy standing next to his Master’s throne with you in his lap, and if Megatron’s wandering claws were any indication, Starscream has witnessed things he would rather not discuss. And yet, the uneasiness seems to fade when he approaches you, wings resting comfortably behind his back.He has known Starscream for longer than he has lived as a senator. The offended front he puts up, the ease with which he lies and praises with a silver glossa, and most of all his innate talent at supervising any tasks under his command despite his scrap attitude.He tends to mellow out in the so-called privacy of the “breeding room”. He’s never been one to take interface lightly from what Soundwave has gathered, but Starscream still pops open his panel when he presses his glossa to your sex. He doubts the Second in Command will ever mass displace to frag you, but bots change, and Soundwave is ready to capture that moment on video. And so, he watches in rapt fascination as Starscream coos compliments between your legs, carefully holding them spread between his digits, not so stealthily rubbing his spike against the berth. Still, Soundwave grows uneasy the more he lingers on the claws, keeping a close optic lest Starscream have the bright idea to push one of them inside of you in a misguided attempt to pleasure you like his Master.Maybe he owes Starscream a bit more credit; as much of an uncooperative pain in the aft he can be, he hasn’t graduated at the top of the Vosnian Academy of Sciences without a basic understanding of force exertion. His claws are especially gentle as he parts your legs again, having already brought you to a quick and easy overload; holding your thighs between his thumbs and digits, spike visibly twitching and valve dripping with transfluid at the camera’s angle. You arch your back and muffle a cry behind your fist, and Starscream playfully chastises you for it, plucking it away from your mouth and planting a cringeworthy but well-meaning kiss to your lips.
4/07 10;81;50;30
Breakdown is next.He hasn’t seen you as much as High Command, but he knows you enough by reputation alone to feel as though you’re close friends. Breakdown has always been social around vehicons, sometimes to the detriment of their workflow, accepting any wayward topics as they come. But he remains an exceptional soldier and supervisor. Soundwave tries not to contemplate how low their standards have plummeted during the war.It always starts with chatting, something about today’s shift, this and that, whatever Knock Out’s been whining about recently; managing to come off as especially good-natured considering his… distaste for your kind after being robbed of his optic. Then again, you’ve always been the exception, courtesy of his Lord and Master.His increasingly horrible puns have you laughing even as he presses his spike between your legs. He is not mass-displaced, not that it matters to you when something is rubbing up against your soaked sex. The angle is awkward this time, and Soundwave wishes he could manually twist the camera to capture the extent of what has you singing so sweetly between Breakdown’s servos. Tragically, all he can see is Breakdown’s backside as he makes yet another embarrassing pun that has Laserbeak beeping indignantly in his processor. He shoos the minicon out of his mind and promises him energon crystals if he keeps quiet, which he begrudgingly accepts.
4/07 16;30;08;05
Predictably, Knock Out takes the relay. Inseparable as he is from Breakdown (or his nurse in training as he affectionately calls him), wherever his partner goes Knock Out is bound to make an appearance – in the same cycle no less.The Chief Medical Officer is nothing if not thorough with you. His status has granted him enough energon rations to mass displace, and it’s with utter delight he does so to get a proper taste of your arousal. You seem unimpressed with his saccharine words, having already received enough silver glossa treatment from Starscream, but it doesn’t stop you from squirming away from the helm between your thighs as he strokes and licks right where you’re most sensitive. No surprise there. Knock Out has been researching questionable material for a while now. He doesn’t even try to conceal it, makes sense to an extent – Soundwave can access any connection to the intranet through the Nemesis, and the doctor’s shamelessness is proof enough he does not care , well aware his superior has better to do than confront him on the topic of human pornography. To be fair, he has a point. Soundwave would be lying if he claimed he never tried looking up the topic on his own only to be bored to scrap by bad acting.For all the slag he gives Knock Out, he is good at what he does (and that goes without mentioning becoming the Chief Medical Officer with only a degree in Clinical Medicine. Primus, they’ve lost their best medics already).He caresses you lightly, slow calculated carresses to make you beg for it, taking advantage of your delirious ache for more . The doctor is showing off to no one but himself (and maybe later to brag to Breakdown), savoring your whimpering as he pumps two digits in and out of you. He teasingly reprimands you for leaving handprints on his finish.Soundwave is not a jealous bot, but he cannot ignore the straining of his spark when you cry out Knock Out’s name.It’s one overload after another until the doctor is satisfied with his performance and frags you properly. Soundwave’s servos tighten, the screen in front of him completely forgotten as he watches Knock Out enter you over and over again with your legs around his hips. It keeps going for what feels like agonizing groons, his audials blocking out the doctor’s sweet nothings, but not your begging. Never your begging.You drag him into a kiss, fingers digging into the cables of his neck, and the noise he makes is a humorous mix between a yelp and a squeak, a far cry from the smooth fragger front he put up. He’s overloaded inside of you, transfluid trickling down your open thighs, spread at such a perfect angle he wonders, if only for a moment, if you’ve positioned yourself on purpose to display your plump and swollen sex to the camera.Soundwave pushes down the charge dragging across his interface panel.
4/08 15;82;00;00
Airachnid.How surprising, it appears that Lord Megatron has taken mercy on the femme. Much like Starscream, she has a way with words – and countless video feeds trained on her lest she overestimate their hospitality.You are unimpressed by her presence. Perhaps informed in advance? She doesn’t pay your apathy any mind, though, transforming back to root mode and tucking six of her eight legs behind her back. She hooks a digit under your chin, cooing her typical stream of questions; did you miss her? How eager are you for her spike? And how desperate are you to be fragged like no tomorrow? She’s blocking the view. You stay quiet as always, but whatever expression you’re wearing has her cackling.You barely react when her many appendages stab into the berth, trapping you like you’re another one of her vile “trophies”. She should know you deserve better than this, but she’s always been the self-serving type. Someone of her frame can fit without mass displacement, but it doesn’t make it any less of a tight fit. You wince, gripping onto the servos pinning you down when her spike presses into you. Your entrance resists for a few nanocliks, then her tip slides in. Soon enough, she’s buried to the hilt.She savors your struggles, poised like a predator over your small body, digits pushing into your flesh to make you squirm. Her posture is as lazy as a cybercat’s, languid thrusts pulling at your entrance, then slowly stuffing you again. This relentless onslaught continues until you’re filled to the brim with transfluid.Eventually, you’re lying on your side, conversing with her in hushed tones. She laughs and captures your lips between her own. When she pulls back, you’re a blushing mess, gazing blankly at the camera. You snap out of it, chuckling and burying your face in her servo.
4/09 18;70;81;06
Dreadwing comes forth.Peculiar considering his distaste for the “arrangement”. Then again, he keeps it to himself, never one to outwardly express the full extent of his unease. He remains respectful of your circumstances, giving you space where the others delight in snatching up your squishy body. You look up at him expectantly, it’s clear this isn’t your first interface together, and presumably not your last. But it’s Soundwave’s first time witnessing it.Dreadwing kneels down and extends a gentle servo towards you, which you take into your hands and kiss. Of fragging course his cooling fans kick in so loudly Soundwave can barely make out what you’re whispering to each other. Before he can so much as strain his audials, Dreadwing has mass displaced. Out of all the Decepticons who paid you a visit, Soundwave surmised the commander was the least likely to do so in the one in a million chance you interfaced. Evidently, he was wrong.There’s an exciting prospect to it, he’s curious to see you take a new spike, if only to gauge your reaction. You’re no less small against Dreadwing’s frame, but you waste no time kissing him even if he’s too stiff to reciprocate. At last, he melts into it, his claws tentatively gliding over your body, which you grab onto and guide to your chest. Somehow, the volume of his fans triples.A new surge of charge clings onto Soundwave’s panel. Try as he might, he cannot pry it off, so he gives up, ignoring the build up warnings flashing across his vision as he dives back into your camera feed.You wrestle under Dreadwing’s frame until he gives in, pulling back for you to roll onto your stomach and lift your hips to meet his interface panel. Your face is out of view, but he can picture you looking back at Dreadwing and cheekily egging him on from the way you wiggle your backside against him. His servos hover over your back, asking if you’re sure you want to do this. A smooth high pitched hum is your only response. His frame shakes from a deep in-vent, and he positions himself on top of you, effortlessly bracing himself on one forearm as he guides his spike inside.The angle blocks out most of your form (thank you very much, Dreadwing’s aft), but it gives Soundwave an excellent viewpoint of your throbbing sex clenching around his spike. He notes the two bulbous growths at its base, resembling the throat sacks of the Urayan razor snake, notable for expanding and shrinking them at will to intimidate predators. If Soundwave had optics, he would be squinting through the camera. In Dreadwing’s case, it can't be for intimidation’s sake, but an extra tool for interfacing.He watches the huge seeker prop himself over you, chassis barely grazing your back and an apprehensive arm wrapped around your waist. His pace is by far the slowest he’s witnessed. Primus, a legless bot could drag itself out of a battlefield faster than he’s fragging you. At the very least he can see your entrance stretching to accommodate Dreadwing, the twitching of your folds growing more pronounced as the bulbs at the base of his spike stuff you. It’s a repeating process, hearing him pull out with a wet “pop” and retracting just enough for you to eagerly buck back into him. Laserbreak is screeching at the edge of his processor, but he cannot tear his optics away from your poor entrance struggling to take in the large “knot”.By now, you’ve already collapsed. If it wasn’t for Dreadwing’s arm around your waist, you wouldn’t be able to meet his agonizing thrusts. The commander isn’t much of a talker, and Soundwave thanks him profusely while he takes in the full extent of your whining and moaning over the whirring of Dreadwing’s cooling fans, shaking profusely against his interface. As collected as he is, the large mech cannot stop the guttural groan resonating from his vocalizer when he spills himself inside of you, pushing in as far as he can go, your pretty little hole force to swallow the base of his large spike.It finally hits Soundwave when you fruitlessly try to pull away from Dreadwing’s spike. The “knot” at the base of his member has locked him inside of you, essentially tying your bodies together to a point there’s no telling where you end and he begins. You’re not alarmed in the slightest, shuddering beneath him, mumbling mindless pleas not unlike the previous interfaces. Carefully, he lies on his side with you in his arms and sets you down next to him, keeping you flush against his groin to limit the tugging of his knot. Who knows what could happen to your anatomy if he hypothetically wrenches it out. Dreadwing intends to keep it hypothetical.You twist your body around just enough to pull on the anchors of his helm until he gets the message and leans in to kiss you, still begging in between kisses for him to keep going. He seems perplexed for a few moments, then his optical ridge arches in amusement when he finally understands what you mean and reaches a servo between your thighs. He rubs circles around the sensitive nerves of your groin, earning something between a sigh of relief and a moan. You overload a few more times, Dreadwing gritting his denta whenever your walls clamp around his overworked spike, trying his hardest to keep from shredding your genitals with his war frame claws. When the “knot” shrinks enough to pull out, it leaves your poor little hole gaping and gushing transfluid.Soundwave shushes Laserbeak’s screeching and promises anything the minicon could want if he can finish the scene in peace. His ward brings forth a pile of stipulations in his processor and cuts off their connection. He files it in the “to read” recesses of his mind among the tower of messages he has yet to review.For the third time in a ⅓ of a deca-cycle, the camera is angled perfectly to capture your swollen sex. Either Lord Megatron, in his infinite wisdom, has perfectly predicted the interface positions during your heat, or you’ve been subtly pushing beings much larger than yourself into aligning their fragging with the camera. It sounds preposterous and conspiratorial, something as sweet as you wouldn’t be capable of it. Either the members of High Command are fantastic actors or Megatron has the hidden talent of an Iaconian movie director. Spike half-pressurized behind his panel, he stares on longingly as you nuzzle Dreadwing’s neck, fiddling with his helm’s protrusions. He allows it, making Soundwave wonder just how many times you’ve shared a berth, or if you’re just so endearing the commander begrudgingly lets it slip if only for the occasion.“Soundwave.”Megatron’s voice rings out behind him. He clutches his EM field as close as he can and maintains his calm in spite of the mortified shrieking echoing in his processor.His Lord’s optics flicker from him to the screen he was supposed to be watching; having upgraded from mining feeds to the monotony of the ship’s command center. Megatron’s gaze is boring into him and he struggles to keep his servos from clenching in anxiety.“I suppose you’ve tapped into our little camera arrangement,” he rasps, lips twisting to reveal a sharp smile. “My pet is irresistible, aren’t they? Especially during their – ah – heats .”He takes another step forward, towering over Soundwave with the promise of mischief in his optics. “I was awaiting your access; even looking forward to it. I expect nothing less from my Intelligence Officer”Megatron’s shadow engulfs him completely.“Now, if you could so kindly send me an edited down copy of the visits, preferably their favorite moments. You’ve certainly guessed which ones.”Without another word, he turns around, arms behind his back as he saunters out of the room. Then, he stops before the exit.“Ah. Soundwave. I almost forgot.” He tilts his head in his officer’s direction, baring his denta in a grin. “They are looking forward to seeing you. I doubt you will disappoint. Tomorrow. Their berth. 8;00 sharp. The final day of their reproductive cycle.”Once the door slides shut, Soundwave buries his visor in his servos and lets out a scream only Laserbeak can hear.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Back when he went by Orion Pax, he was as chaste as a lily. Not from lack of fuckability, oh no. His small frame at the time made him especially cute to onlookers, but it was nigh impossible to hang around him when he was too busy working as a clerk or researching Cybertron’s history in his downtime. There's certainly a possibility he ate at least (1) valve back on Cybertron. Whose? Who fucking knows. My bet would be on Megatronus, but he wouldn’t have horribly fumbled the bag if that was the case. Maybe cunnilingus could have saved their planet…
Having, to an extent, merged his consciousness with the thirteen primes, he has gained their wisdom and become something akin to a demi-God by Cybertronian standards. Except with none of the praise, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Anyway, let’s cease philosophizing about his nature as a Prime, what we’re looking for is how good he is at eating pussy with that extra knowledge. Answer: it depends on the receiver. Considering the size difference, he makes it work without catching your clit between his glossa’s mesh plating. He prefers supporting you in his massive servos, carefully wrapping his digits around your frame in case you start squirming too much and fall off. He applies slow languid licks between pauses, waiting to gauge your reaction in case he’s hurting you. It’s sweet of him, but please Optimus, you need to make your partner cum else they’ll die.
Ratchet has been alive for Primus knows how many slutty millenia. Of course he can eat valves. And if he can eat valves, he can eat human pussy just fine. The hard part is dragging him away from his workstation. Don’t get him wrong, he would love to bury his face between your legs, but he’s got things to do, nevermind a whole ass team to keep alive on top of manning the ground bridge and fixing whatever alien technical bullshittery Raf can’t help with (seeing as the little guy only takes care of the human technical bullshittery). He’s perpetually exhausted, and if Cybertronians had an equivalent to coffee, you’re sure he’d be downing it like a single father after losing everything in the divorce except the kids. So when he gets the chance to eat pussy, he takes his damn time with it, pressing his face against your groin for so long you think he’s fallen into recharge. When he gets to work, he’s savoring every inch of you, making a point to complain there isn’t enough energon to mass displace and taste you completely. The size difference is especially annoying to him, but he makes due nonetheless by slipping the tip of his glossa between your folds, pushing it as far as it can go without hurting you. His engine growls from desperate hunger as he grinds his spike against the ground, grunting and scoffing against your pussy as he has to contend with the smallest sample he’s ever received. Ratchet is going to kill Megatron.
Bulkhead is a complicated case. Yes, he’s tried valves. Any wrecker worth their weight in energon has eaten valves like no tomorrow. But the point is, when you look at his jaw, things get a bit complicated. An overbite in humans is mildly bothersome for a giver, but it gets even worse when you look at Cybertronian anatomy and realize that oh, he’s going to do some major jaw exercises to stick his glossa out properly and eat you out. Thank fuck you’re so small in this case, you have no idea much easier this makes his job. To be fair, his main worry is hurting you. Optimus is careful, yes, but Bulkhead has known destruction for the vast majority of his life, not only as a career, but as a way of life. So when he finds you naked in his servos, smiling up at him, his spike retracts into his panel from anxiety alone. If he so much as bruises you, he will shrivel up and offline. He can handle humans just fine, but during interface? He already has to take a breather before he tries anything in the Cybertronian equivalent of a panic attack. His cooling fans are screeching, and if he could sweat, he’d be causing a major flood in Nevada and all its neighboring states. In conclusion, yes, he can eat out. Not perfectly, but he puts in some valiant effort that’s sure to pay off sooner or later.
At first glance, you may exclaim “Wowzers! Bumblebee doesn’t have a mouth! How can he eat pussy without glossa or lips?” – well guess what! Take a vibrator and stick it between your legs. That’s Bumblebee right there. They should add him as a synonym for it in the dictionary. He may not be able to lick up your juices, but he can buzz incessantly against your groin at a near illegal setting until you come undone. He is so proud of himself. And for his own sake, let’s hope he never got to experience valves before he lost his oral equipment. He tries to be comforting, beeping words of encouragement that you absolutely do not understand but get the gist off anyways. Chances are, he’s either helping you balance on top of his face to get the full hitachi magic wand duct taped to the floor experience, or you’re both lying down while you’re cupped in his servos as he buzzes excitedly between your legs; equal parts cute and overwhelming. You feel bad for using him like this, but he beeps reassuringly and urges you to lie back in his servos and enjoy the ride. He’s such a hitachi toy it’s not even funny anymore. You start giving him setting levels which he eagerly follows like the boyscout he is, keeping the same vibration pace even as you start humping his face plate. You pray to Primus Raf isn’t looking for his guardian, else he’s going to overhear things you would rather die than explain.
Arcee is… way too good at eating out. On Cybertron, she could eat a valve like her life depended on it, sucking on the anterior node and wiggling her glossa inside of it well after her partners would overload, begging her to stop from overstimulation alone. Nowadays, she still has it. With her two-wheeler frame type, she can easily access a human pussy without any trouble, treating it like the cutest minicon valve she’s ever seen. She’s all rapid licks and wandering digits, stuffing you to the brim when she’s busy torturing your clit between her lips, then circling around it as she pushes her tongue between your folds. Arcee’s a fucking menace. She leaves you a crying hyperventilating mess as you plead with her to let you breathe. Yes, she’ll take your words into account and stop at some point. Key word: some. You get a break whenever she fancies. This, or you go into cardiac arrest and she has to deal with your metaphorical blood on her juice-soaked servos, all from eating pussy too good. No one should have that sort of power. But Arcee does, because she’s an unstoppable force. Prepare yourself from some light pillow talk after she takes mercy on you, stroking your cheek and leaning in for a kiss. You can taste yourself on her intake, and she wants you to contemplate the flavor as she wraps her arms around your squishy body in a protective hug, the blue glow of her optics dancing over your skin.
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“I’m relieved we aren’t the only ones in this universe.”The words echo in his processor like sand in the desert wind. Fading in and out of consciousness under the rubble, he clings onto the softness of your voice, the faded edges of your smile burnt into his memory. He cannot make sense of your shape anymore, it’s a blotch of ink in his vision, something he recalls but cannot fully visualize. His mind reaches out to you, so close yet so far away. With every step he takes, you grow smaller, and still, you patiently wait for him with your arms outstretched. Like old times.You are dead. This he knows. Unequivocally dead. His digits twitch, warnings encapsulate his vision, reminding him each and every nanoclik of wakefulness that the next in-vent could be his last. He can’t help himself. Duty has led his life for so long, bestowed upon him by his creator, and he cannot fall back now and forgo his promise to protect Cybertron. But he is weak; pain receptors growing numb from the boulders crushing his frame, limbs quivering from a battle long lost. Primus forgive him, allow him this final comfort.Cycles ago, your crew had first established contact with Cybertron. It was a message sent across space, a simple signal that would tie your fates forever. The Council debated answering, fearing you could pose a threat to their planet, but there were only three ships with only a handful of members each. They chose fraternization over static silence. Communication was difficult, but somehow, someway, you understood each other just enough to arrive on their planet. Surprise struck him when he saw your kind, small, frail and soft to the touch. Your people were just as startled as them, but in your optics he saw something greater; a delight in meeting fellow sentient beings.They took in your crew and treated them like brothers and sisters, communicating through gestures and drawings. You could not speak their language, but they could learn yours. Knowledge was shared among you, tales of your worlds, their history, your technology, your people…Perhaps your place among your own was what drew him to you. Standing on the sidelines, you watched and took notes, occasionally serving as a sketch artist to exchange information. The others were mingling with the Council, asking questions, telling stories, showing what machinery brought you to them. But you kept your distance, politely nodding along and busying yourself with your notebooks. When he approached you, taking slow careful steps, you nearly dropped your pen in shock. His size was already intimidating by Cybertronian standards, but for a human? He could barely imagine the primal fear you felt when met with someone of his stature. You recovered quickly despite it, uneasy but maintaining your composure. Having knelt down to your level, he offered you servo, the sand within it shaping into a miniature version of your ship. You blinked, clutching your notebook to your chassis. Then, after a drawn out silence, you smiled, optics gleaming with wonder.That was the start of your companionship.You would sit in his servo, looking up at the night sky, speaking words he could barely understand but tried his hardest to learn. He recalls bits and pieces, meanings he managed to grasp through what you taught him.It wasn’t long until your time together grew intimate. As a prime, he was so focused on his duties that he barely got the chance to relax, much less interface. Things were… difficult due to the size difference, but there were workarounds.Charge runs through his fuel lines at the memory. How you would brush your digits against his valve, testing the waters so to say, before slipping your servo inside of it. There was no true relief in the interface, no way for you to properly satisfy each other. But you were both content, savoring every moment of your companionship. You would press your lips to his spike, working your servo in and out of his gushing valve. It made his frame shudder and his optics glitch.
He touched you much the same way, digits rubbing at the sensitive nerves between your thighs, gazing down at you lovingly as you grit your denta and arched your optical ridge in pleasure.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Dreadwing is, to put it simply, horrible at eating out. Please don’t hold it against him, he wasn’t exactly out there back on Cybertron, and things got even worse when he was cooped up in his spaceship hunting down Autobots and Wreckers. Can he even remember when he last ate valve? Probably, Cybertronians have better memories than humans, but there’s no way he doesn’t cringe inside recalling the event. He has no idea what he’s doing, he’s the furthest thing from a Casanova, the antithesis of a sex god. Show him some mercy and give him instructions, he’ll listen to them as best he can, you just wish he would go harder and stop holding back like you’re made of glass. To be fair, by Cybertronian standards you’re extremely fragile, but… you trust him enough not to kill you with his glossa. It’s all awkward licks without your input, staring down at your pussy like it’s a bomb he has to defuse, and it’s not very sexy when he’s analyzing your genitals instead of eating you out. He can treat you like a gentlebot as much as he wants, protectively cupping you in his servo while on his knees, bringing your little body to his intake and ex-venting against it, leaving shivers down your spine. But the second he gets to work it feels like you bought a vibrator on Temu and received a bootleg PS5 controller. Either you beat the circumstances and cum against his face, or you make no progress in the span of hours. Cut the guy some slack, he’s trying his best to please.Skyquake has the opposite problem. No, sadly not in the sense that he can tongue fuck you until you see Primus and get a drawn out “Nice” from their God/Creator/Dad. Bad cunnilingus runs in the family. The issue is, he’s too rough. If it’s not the general glossa to clit action, it’s the way he’s holding you in his servos, digits wrapped too tightly around your itty bitty body, enough to make you wince. He will adjust his grip if asked, but don’t expect him to remember during the entire act. You offer a prayer to the fallen Cybertronians who had their anterior nods bitten off by a walking jet with no chill. Squirm too much and he’ll assume he’s doing a good job, beg him to stop and he’ll take it as encouragement to keep overstimulating you. Except it’s not overstimulation – oh no. He’s turning your pussy numb faster than you can say “I wish it was your brother”. He’s well-meaning, just too intense for your own good. You have to treat him like a rescue, lure him in with treats and train him to stop biting you at random intervals. If you manage, he’ll lower his aggression, if only a little bit, and he’ll try being more mindful of your reaction, shedding his one track mind for a night or two.There are complicated cases, then there’s Starscream who, like the drama queen he is, has to be number one in avoiding your genitals like the plague until he feels safe enough to give them a try. Ironic since he can shishkebab you with those giant claws. Dude needs to trust you if he’s going to stick his glossa between your folds. Worst thing is; he’s good. Not just good, but fantastic at eating out. Who fucking knows how many Cybertronians had their valves ruined at his servos, but you have to earn your keep, make it to the top of his most trusted list and reap your reward. He enjoys the act, leaning all casually against a wall with you in his servos, keeping your thighs apart with two sharp as steel digits; applying languid licks to your pussy until you’re shaking in his gentle grip. Buck into him, he encourages it, it feeds into his ego, and by Primus the more praise you slather onto your words the better he does. Give him any kind of appreciation and he’s clinging onto it like the holy grail. He gets off on pushing you to your limits, having you beg for more as he assures you in a silky voice that you will get your dues soon. Absolute 10/10, do recommend.Soundwave does not possess a proper “mouth” by human standards, doubtful he even had one when he was forged. But he has a sort of… throat intake for lack of a better word which he uses to refuel. Fear not fellow robot-fuckers! He makes up for what he lacks in other ways, mainly making proper use of his tentacle-like cables, each possessing a number of thin wires. Under usual circumstances, he uses them to connect to machinery or, in case he needs an extra oomf during a brawl, lights his opponent the fuck up with one billion volts of pure ass-kicking electricity. Now, don’t worry, Soundwave isn’t planning on turning your pussy into a death row inmate. He’s got enough control over his own frame to avoid this worst case scenario, and he’s certainly not clumsy enough to accidentally fry your pussy like a thanksgiving turkey. Those wires feel way too good inside of you, dragging across your clit with ease and squirming between your folds like miniature tentacles. The whole ordeal is akin to a consensual hentai experience with no need to yamete kudasai him; he can gauge your reaction on his own. After all, as the Intelligence Officer, deciphering body language is a must.If you're letting Airachnid eat you out, you have no survival instincts. I'm not saying you're an idiot, but you're widely overestimating her “kindness”. Let's all take a moment of silence for the fallen valves of innocent Cybertronians. If and only if she has the barest sliver of empathy, she's going to torture your pussy until you're a crying mess caught in her web, without turning you into her newest trophy once the deed is done. At least not a dead trophy, because once she gets her servos on your squishy little human body, you belong to her, a hypothetical deal with spider Satan in exchange for the best head of your life. She's cruel in every sense of the word, but her talent at pushing you to the brink of insanity leaves you willing to risk everything, including your genitals, in this one sided power dynamic. Bound in her web, she delights in ghosting her digits over your throat, pushing down just enough to remind you of your place in this bargain. She can end your precious organic life whenever she pleases, mixing fear with pleasure as she presses her lips to your pussy.Breakdown is a special case, always has been. Among the vast majority of Decepticons, he doesn't aim to make you beg, nor to destroy your sense of self with his glossa. He's just… a guy, completely normal next to the others, and this, ironically enough, makes him stand out. He's good at what he does, not mind-blowing by any means, just average. He has practiced enough with valves and made his partners overload plenty of times. A pussy is small, sure, but he's had minicons before, you're in safe servos here; and he’s not rusty at it either, he's one of the very few Cybertronians on Earth who frags on the regular (in no small thanks to Knock Out). Contrary to what his status indicates, he's more than just the “smash your opponents into scrap” soldier. It feels nice to lower his inner walls around someone other than his partner. There’s a major difference between the self-assured intimidation he wants to exude and the softness he craves. As such, shows exceptional gentleness handling you, cupping you in his huge servos or, if you're a daredevil, holding your hips with two massive digits as you grind your pussy against his intake. “Cute,” he thinks as you hump his face like an overly territorial parakeet. You may be a little shit, but you’re his little shit that he pampers and pleasures until you mellow out and relax against his chassis.Knock Out fucks. End of discussion. He FUCKS. He has fragged on Cybertron, he's fragging on the Nemesis, you cannot stop him. Am I exaggerating? Possibly, but Knock Out is a young Cybertronian with the libido of an unneutered bull, so of course he can eat pussy. Issue is, he's smug about it, teasing you with the tip of his glossa until you beg him to put in some actual effort. He draws out your pleading until you have tears in your eyes, then he grants you the orgasm you've been dying for. Have fun being handled like a particularly juice push pop candy, you must sacrifice your dignity for robot cunnilingus. Knock Out may want you to assume he's a natural at human pussy, but the truth is; he's been googling the topic nonstop like a horny 14 year old on his dad's computer. He actively wants you to believe it’s an effortless task, you have no idea how much time and effort he puts into researching the topic, all for your admiration. Now please, give it to him, especially after all this hard work. Just don’t mention how you glimpsed his internet history.Calling Megatron intimidating would be an understatement. Sharp denta don’t mesh well with pussy, nor does an ex-gladiator current warlord with your squishy body. But he “begs” to differ. Head from this bitch is the equivalent of sticking your entire hand in the jaws of a rabid rottweiler; you can do nothing but pray he doesn’t bite down. You’re the dumb little fleshling who found itself in his grasp, and he’s not letting go anytime soon. Human pussy is infinitely more fragile than Cybertronian valve, and he makes sure to remind you by skimming his jagged denta over your thighs. You’re caged in his servo, arms squeezed at your sides as you let the tyrant savor you to the last drop, leering down at you with half-lidded optics. He looks like he’s about to bite a chunk out of your private bits, and the fear makes you taste all the sweeter. Unscrupulous as he is, he has no shame stroking his spike during the act, growling between your legs promises of what’s to come. If you’ve survived this long, Megatron values you to a self-indulgent degree. Keep back and let his glossa drag you to the highest highs and the lowest lows, it’s not like you can do anything between those claws. He treats you as he pleases, but what pleases him most is making you cry out and twist in his grasp from overstimulation alone. Humans are so terribly sensitive .
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Optimus
takes it rather well considering… everything. He’s got a team to lead, a dead planet on his conscience and a homoerotic rivalry with his ex-best friend/murderous dictator who’s obsessed with him. Life could be a lot better right now. But it also could be a lot worse. He’s content watching from the sidelines as his fellow Autobots enjoy a new part of Earth culture. Don’t mind him, he’ll join in once his work is done. For now the best he can do is flash you an encouraging smile as you fail to string out the Christmas lights for the fifth time in a row – you can do it, he believes in you. He tries his best to seem oblivious when you climb the ladder June is holding still (the ultimate wingwoman), keeping a close optic behind the terminal just in case things go south and he has to catch you. When you call his name with the goofiest smile on your face, he beams at you, equal parts pride and cute aggression.
“Hey,” you drawl, doing your best to seem as charming as possible while holding on for dear life on the only thing stopping you from plummeting to the ground. “So there’s this Christmas tradition you may not have heard about…”
He attentively listens to the explanation, nodding his helm and faking surprise when he hears what mistletoes entail. His spark stutters in his chassis when you ask him, sheepishly averting your gaze, if he’d like to partake in this human tradition. He graciously accepts, hovering a servo over your frame (in case you stumble back in shock) and leans in for you to initiate the kiss. Yes, Miko told him. Yes, she ruined the surprise. No, he won’t tell you because he’s never seen you happier getting to kiss him.
Ratchet
is unimpressed. At least that’s what he wants you to believe. He’s so invested in decorating he spends every minute off work painstakingly stringing obnoxiously bright garlands around the railings and holding the kids in his servos to reach the highest branches of the gigantic and possibly illegally uprooted Christmas tree. He’s complaining about the time he will waste taking down the decorations, but everyone in the base knows damn well he’s going to keep them on as long as he can. You don’t even have to bring up the mistletoe, he’s overheard enough from the crappy Holiday-themed movies the kids have been watching to secretly crank up the charm while scoffing on the outside. You’re watching the kids place the final touches on the tree, a mug of eggnog in one hand while helping yourself to some Santa-shaped sugar cookies. You barely notice Ratchet leaning in with a minuscule strand of mistletoe between his massive digits. It takes a moment for you to understand, what with the plant being nigh invisible in his servo. Finally, you swallow thickly and stand on your tippy toes (on the couch no less) to reach his intake. The kiss is the longest he’s ever experienced up until now, and while he has the kissing abilities of a dying fish, he melts into it while you forget how to breathe.
Bulkhead
is clearly enjoying himself, watching bad Christmas dramas with the kids, trying to figure out how to remix old carols with Miko adding a rock (and occasionally death metal) twist. It’s simultaneously the funniest and most mind-boggling Holiday celebration anyone has ever experienced, add Wheeljack into the mix and now Ratchet is watching these two like a hawk in case they roughhouse too much and crush the Christmas tree. Miko would actually love to see that, and you and Bulkhead both have to be the responsible adults of the situation and try to keep the damage at a minimum while Wheeljack acts like the world’s worst influence on a teenager. By Primus, Bulkhead is actually tempted to join it, and now you have to reel in two grown adult mechs eons your senior and one 15 year old girl. Primus save you. And yet, beyond all expectations, said 15 year old girl is your wingwoman for the evening, which is simultaneously humiliating and a godsend. When she pulls out the plastic mistletoe from her pocket and holds it over you and Bulkhead’s heads from her vantage point on his neck, a move she’s been planning months in advance, your soul exits your body. The staring contest between you and her robot dad breaks only when Miko urges you to do
something
at least. The kiss is short and sweet, Bulkhead is screaming inside during the whole ordeal no matter how brief, hoping to Primus he didn’t somehow kiss you so badly during a five second interval you’re willing to break up with him. Nah, you’re blushing so intensely June thinks you’re about to have an aneurysm.
Wheeljack
is a menace, and it’s entirely your fault. Mentioning the tradition wasn’t supposed to end up like this, but alas, horny dumbassery always leads to worst case scenarios. Bulkhead told you to go for it, meaning well with his encouragement but sealing your fate for the next 24 hours. Ratchet asked you if you were out of your mind, the voice of reason and simultaneously the bitchiest best friend you could ask for, telling you loud and clear if anything happened it would be on your conscience alone. June put a hand on your shoulder and (half) jokingly said she would ask to be assigned to your hospital room. Truly, you have the will to live of a hamster doing its hardest to die a horribly gruesome death and reach hamsterhallah. What a genius you are. Wheeljack wasted no time getting you under the mistletoe Bulkhead helped string up, and maybe you envisioned it differently when he narrowly bruised your lips going in for the kiss. You tried to keep the sloppy makeout session brief, but from the way Bulkhead was shielding the kids behind not one but
two
giant servos, you might have overdone it. What you especially did not expect,
however
, was waking up in the Jackhammer’s passenger seat with the worst migraine of your life and dry transfluid slathered all over your crotch. Now, trying to recall the events of last night with the worst eggnog hangover you’ve ever experienced, you can only wait for Wheeljack to awaken from recharge in the pilot’s seat. You note the traces of transfluid on his lips, and your eyes trail down to your suspiciously bluish hand. Did you fist Wheeljack on Christmas Eve?
Bumblebee
is having the time of his life. You got Raf (and his Autobot guardian) some discount Christmas-themed games from the only offbrand Gamestop in all of Jasper as an early present. You watch with rapt amusement as they laugh at the frankly abysmal coding and game design, enjoying themselves to the fullest despite the sub-optimal gameplay, but you almost choke on your spit when Raf actually starts analyzing the code for the game and applying level-breaking cheats in a matter of minutes. Cheesus Christ, that kid can hack into the Pentagon at this point. You move in front of Agent Fowler’s line of sight to stop him from seeing just what kind of threat to national security Raf can become. As the day nearly comes to an end and you’re half sure Jack is scrutinizing Ratchet who’s flirting with his mom who’s tucking her hair behind her ear in the single mom sign for “I will fuck this alien robot”; you beckon Bumblebee closer and hold out the mistletoe over your head and his uh… forehead. You kiss him slowly, holding onto the railing as he leans his face into your lips, beeping happily. Little do you know, Miko saw it and now she’s going to hold out a mistletoe over your heads for the next 5 hours until your mouth grows numb from kissing him. He looks so damn happy whenever he notices the mistletoe, you can’t say no to him, not when Dadimus Prime is watching from the other corner of the room.
Arcee
is ahead of schedule. She knows what you’re going to do, and she’s already planning to one up you. Yes, she’s been especially busy giving the kids a lift to put up the final ornaments on the tree in spite of her initial protests, but now you’re fiddling with your fingers stealing occasional glances like you’re desperately hyping yourself up for what’s to come. You have no idea what you’re doing to her looking so shy and cute. She could just eat you up. You’re unsure when you go up to her, Christmas fun fact on your lips and sweating bullets just thinking about what you’re going to do - and your jaw drops down to the Earth’s core when she gingerly holds a strand of mistletoe over your heads. She wishes she could capture your expression and lock it inside her spark. When you kiss, it’s deep and longing, filled with a need to give yourself up completely in spite of being so finite next to her. And she welcomes it, all of it, taking your eagerness and savoring every minute with you. When you pull away heaving for breath, your hair’s a mess and you’re redder than Cliffjumper’s plating. Your eyes twinkle when you look at her, equal parts love and desperation to surrender yourself to her with all the trust in the world. She will protect you until the day she offlines.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You can’t help the dread building up in your gut.Vulnerability is a given when you’re handcuffed to a bed in an old abandoned mine with a metal titan looming over you. Of course you trust him, he’s Megatron, you’ve known him for months and he’s done nothing but make you feel comfortable around him. As comfortable as can be when his own soldiers are terrified of him. Maybe it’s the humiliation of failing at sex. You tried. You really did. But even with an XXL strapon, there wasn’t anything you could do when his robot pussy was big enough to crawl inside of. Even a Mammoth or a Goliath dildo couldn’t fill it. He let you go through with it, if only to entertain himself. You tried to give him the best fuck of his life, and of course failed miserably while he watched in amusement, resting his chin in his hand and leaving your dignity (at least what was left of it) somewhat intact. You cursed the interspecies aspect, unable to find his alien clit among the confusing stream of red lights covering his robo pussy – his robussy if you will. You spent the better part of an hour struggling to make him cum before giving up and, like a stubborn alpha male on the verge of tears after having his masculinity challenged, asked him what you should do next. To add insult to injury, he straight up offered to switch places. It wasn’t so much an offer as an underlying order, but the softness of his tone betrayed affection exclusive to you, his special little pogchamp. The two pairs of handcuffs you had laying around from a previous relationship (which were never used) hurt your wrists despite the velvet covering. Here you lie, arms outstretched like a perverted portrayal of Jesus Christ. You writhe under his smoldering gaze. A full body shiver envelops you when a frigid metal finger comes down to trace your skin, chest to groin. You push against it, begging for more than featherlight touches, but he adjusts the pressure accordingly, neglecting your desperate human flesh. Perhaps sweet promises may convince him otherwise? “Please,” you murmur, “please stop being a tease and fuck me already. I’ll.. I’ll do anything, just please stop teasing me!” You swear you’ll deepthroat his ginormous robodick, then find the roboclit and start sucking on it like a giant pacifier. Anything as long as he sticks his finger where you need it most. Your pleas fall on deaf ears for the next decade and a half. There are tears in your eyes and your throat is burning from begging insistently.He’s a smug son of a bitch for torturing you in the most cruel manner imaginable because of a simple failure. Your genitals are sore from being pushed to the brink of orgasm only to have it ruined. He’s good at it. That’s the worst part. It doesn’t take him long to drive you over the edge, but as you cry out victoriously, inches away from the coveted orgasm, he always pulls back at the last second. Whining won’t do anything, not even calling him a cunt in a display of insolent horniness. It’s no use, not when he’s the one calling the shots. Just when you resign yourself to your fate and cease begging, he flashes you a jubilant smile and reaches for the handcuffs. “Thank God,” you babble triumphantly. He then proceeds to effortlessly tear the chains from both pairs.Those… those were heavy duty handcuffs, and he broke them off like toothpicks. Gaping at him in awe, he hooks the tip of a finger under your jaw and closes your mouth.“Holy shit…” you mumble under your breath. “You’re easily impressed,” he remarks in his hypnotic voice. You cling onto the sound like a melody you’re scared to forget. He carefully picks you up and heads towards the stone structure serving as his throne; rocks carefully sculpted into a work of art by none other than Blitzwing himself who’s… surprisingly artistic when his boss is breathing down his neck. He sits down, legs spread, cradling you in his hand. Hearing the distinct click of his panel opening, you turn around only to be grabbed by the chin and have your attention brought back to him. “Focus on me, little one,” he purrs in the honeyed tone reserved for you and you alone . Without hesitation, you pull your thighs open in a humiliating but no less hot display of subordination. He brings you to his face, the red glow of his eyes making your hair stand on end. His tongue is unusually warm for the task at hand, thick and pleasantly textured, a single lick makes you shudder in delight. He adjusts you in his grip, arching your back to better access your aching loins. Head hanging low, you can’t even be bothered by the blood rushing to your brain. If you die from a brain hemorrhage then at least you die getting the best head of your life. Plus, if you angle yourself right, you can see him lazily stroking his member. In the midst of pleasure, you cling onto his fingers and reach a pitch so high you’re actually impressed with your vocal performance. It doesn’t take long for you to climax, but he’s nowhere near done. Asking for more soon turns into imploring him to stop. You can barely wiggle your hips in his grasp, let alone squeeze your thighs shut with a tongue as large as his against your folds. “Satisfied?” he asks with a malicious grin on his lips. “Yes! Please I… I can’t take it anymore!” you cry out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Good,” he chuckles against your sex, sending a painful wave of pleasure to your core. “Because I’m the furthest thing from it.” His tongue pushes back into you.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Okay?” he asks, muzzle pressed against your cheek.
There’s a slight mechanical warble to his words, but the English is nigh impeccable. It’s been a few months and he’s already grasped more than you did studying German for three years. His pronunciation has rapidly evolved, going from techno dial up noises to something almost
human
if not for the digitized waver in his voice.
For someone so huge, let alone made of metal, he’s awfully gentle with your squishy human body. You kiss his snout, sending a wave of crackling energy to his horn and tail.
“Yeah, I’m good, no need to fuss over me,” you say with a smile on your face.
You climb the last steps of the human-sized stairs up to his bed. The fabric is notably similar to a non-sticky gym mat, uncomfortable to sleep on, sure, but manageable when your goal is to get your rocks off.
There’s no time for a strip-tease when he’s been insistently brushing his muzzle against your sex for half an hour, purring poorly translated but no less sweet praises. Naked on all fours, feeling all kinds of vulnerable in this new position, you brace yourself on your arms, arching your back to show your ass in what you hope to be an attractive display of your goods. Your heart is pounding in your chest like you're teenager waiting for "dessert" after a date
, and no matter how many times you do this, he makes you feel like an utter virgin.
He props himself over you, half standing on the bed, half on the ground; his hands (or paws if you want to get technical) pressing into the soft mesh of the mattress. Yes, he could fall down and crush you. But you trust him not to, because if none of the Primes have, there's no way in hell the chillest member is going to put an end to your life when he has the focus and self-control to create near-perfect sand replicas of your ships.
“Ready?” he asks to be sure, to which you reply with a quick “Yep!” and push against his panel.
The feeling of his snug cock brushing over your sex and stomach sends a fire to your loins. The pace is slow and passionate, member languidly (and carefully) stroking sensitive nerves that make you shudder with delight. The blue fluid coating your thighs is warm and welcome next to the chilly air. His vents breathe excess heat onto your back, and you barely get the chance to thank him between moans when he finds the perfect angle to make you lose it. You grip onto the bed, ass up, face down, bucking against him pathetically.
Ah, dignity. It’s been months since you lost her.
“Like this?” he asks again, angling his head to catch an awkward glimpse of you under his frame.
You give him a thumbs up and cheekily reply “I need you to fuck me like I owe you money.”
A bit too jokey of an answer, because now he’s looking at you like you just spontaneously grew an extra head.
“Yes,” you confirm, “like this.”
He complies immediately, maintaining the perfect (and probably uncomfortable in his case) angle, pressing against your sex so pleasantly your knees are shaking. It doesn’t take long for you to cum, crying out his name as you’ve done many times before, legs buckling underneath you. He doesn’t seem to mind having you rest on his member, and he leaves you a few minutes to collect yourself before he pulls away and transforms back into his normal form.
You roll over and spread your arms out welcomingly when he reaches over and takes you into his hand. Then, he sits back down on the mattress with you in his palm.
“May I?” he inquires for the final time, gesturing at his hardon, terribly polite for someone who sounds like he’s on the brink of losing it from sexual frustration.
“Please do,” you answer with proverbial popcorn in your lap, stroking your sex as he starts pumping his member.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Stay still,” he orders.Maybe you should have shut up from the start, stopped bombarding him with questions for the past month and a half and kept on working as their morally dubious (and unpaid) PR manager. He could have snapped earlier. He should have snapped earlier. From the way he has patiently answered your questions compared to Lugnut and Blitzwing who’ve threatened your life more times than you can feasibly count, he has shown nothing but tolerance in the face of your overexcited blabbering. But now? Oh, you’ve gone too far. And there’s no turning back. “Are we… sure about this? I mean, not that I’m complaining,” you say while chuckling nervously. You wriggle in his servo to no avail, his grip is firm, nowhere near painful, but inescapable. “You’ll manage,” he reassures with amusement tilting his voice. His timbre is soft and rumbling, so close you can feel it in your bones. This isn’t your first time getting freaky with the likes of him, but considering the circumstances, you’re apprehensive he may kill you with his spike- “Oh hey, that’s a new model!” you exclaim the second you catch sight of it. Grey and black, lined with red biolights, and much more feasible for someone of your body type to take. “Wow, did you get it from that purple guy? Was it Swindle or something? Anyway, I knew he sold you cool stuff but I didn’t expect him to sell spikes too. Ooh, does he sell valves? If you get a smaller one can I peg you? I promise I’ll do better this time! Pretty please? Please, please please please-” He gives you a warning squeeze. “Fuck ! Okay, sorry. I got the message.” You mimic zipping your lips shut and give him a thumbs up. He looks unimpressed. His spike is cool against your thighs from the generous coating of lube, but its tip is deliciously warm. It’s certainly the biggest dick you’ve taken until now, and you consider yourself a size queen. “Oh uh… did you pick, like, the third smallest to give me an extra challenge?” You dare unzip your mouth. “I appreciate you believing in me, but… I don’t think I can survive that ,” you nudge your head in its direction, shivering from the mere thought of it inside of you. “It was custom-ordered,” he says, leering down at your tiny form. He runs his thumb over your breasts, a bead of transfluid forming at the tip of his spike, pink and shiny. You swallow hard. “Believe me,” he continues, breath slick with oil, “this is as small as they could go.” You claw at his servo when he presses it into you, a searing pain shooting through your core. “You could have prepared me at least, you know?” you hiss through gritted teeth. “Yes,” he admits, not a hint of apology behind the mirth in his tone. “But I believe you can manage just fine.” Bold words from someone who’s trying to stuff you like a Thanksgiving turkey. You would call him a cunt if you weren’t throwing your head back and groaning at the feeling of his free servo rubbing circles around your clit. “You really are a bastard,” you squeak, caught between pleasure and pain. His spike is halfway inside of you with no hint of stopping.“And you should have learned to shut your intake ages ago,” he answers in his silky voice, crookedly smiling down at you. The very sound of him speaking is enough to send a wave of heat to your groin, making your walls involuntarily twitch around him. You glare up at him, his smile widens.The pace he starts at is excruciating; slow shallow thrusts pulling at your pussy, thumb drawing circles around your clit. He stays quiet as always, the only hint of pleasure on his part being the steady whirring of his cooling fans and the hot air being ex-vented against your skin. Soon enough, his spike is fully sheathed inside of you. You can barely move, filled to the brim by something that should decidedly never fit inside a human. “Overwhelmed?” he croons, voice caressing your poor aching nerves. “Fuck you,” you unwisely declare, visibly shaking in his fist. “I’ll consider that a yes,” he adds, mocking, pulling out of you just enough to give you the impression of hope, only to crush it once he stuffs himself back in. He fucks you for what feels like hours, leaving you speechless and numb from his brutal branch of pleasure, twitching around his spike, having cum enough times to leave you shaking in his grasp. You send a prayer to the All Spark when he finally finishes inside of you, filling you up to the brim with transfluid, enough to spill out of you and trickle down the crack of your ass. Your throat is sore from begging for mercy, and if you had any dignity left, you would look away in shame from those piercing red eyes. “Something the matter? You seem awfully quiet,” he teases, still rubbing his digit over abused nerves. “Bitch…” you rasp between ragged breaths.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You don’t deserve him.Quite frankly, you don’t deserve anyone. You’re meek, untalented and homely. Among others of your kind, you are below average in everything, and the least qualified in your position. It was a stroke of luck, or rather an attempt to self-destruct through entertaining contact with metal titans. Some idiotic part of you thought it would quell the pain in your chest after your disillusionment with the US government. They promised you altruism, said you could accomplish great things for the population, take care of the less fortunate, protect those neglected by the system and take the new generation under your wing while guiding them towards a brighter future. You were a fool for believing their silver lies, but was it so wrong to dream of a world where you mattered in the eyes of the powers that be? To think that, if only for a moment, there was something greater looking out for everyone’s well-being? Evidently, you were wrong.Starscream was the one who saw potential in you, however small. He noticed your fancy government badge that didn’t mean shit to you anymore and decided you were a good fit for his newest project. With enough classified documents under your belt to qualify as a government risk, you were considered a good fit to aid them in infiltrating and dismantling the very structure providing the Autobots with invaluable aid.It didn’t take much convincing, you had already given up on a position you’d worked your whole life towards, and after what you witnessed at the top, you would do anything to get back at the very same people leaving others to die just to line their own pockets with money. Maybe that was what brought you close in the first place; a shitty boss pretending to support a cause he didn’t believe in, mistreating his subordinates on a whim, berating others for minor mistakes until they cracked under the pressure.In the beginning, Starscream regarded you with poorly hidden contempt, no different from your human superiors. But little by little, through mutual exhaustion, he’s begun to begrudgingly view you as a competent collaborator. Dedicated to a fault, you’ve worked your ass off providing the requested information to your titans to drown out the fear eating at your brain, warning you of your imminent demise at their hands. But what could you do? Life traded you one anxiety for another, and at least the threat they posed was physical, no hidden motivations to look out for under a veneer of kindness. Simple, but effective. Entertaining a workplace relationship with the likes of a giant metal alien wasn’t expected by any means, but you’ve accepted it quickly under uncertain circumstances. There was no proper time to contemplate your actions, much less take a hard look at your situation and rebuke yourself for taking everything in stride. Survival was talking, and there was no questioning it with your head on the chopping block and someone as elegant as him offering respite. He always seems on edge, stiff and analytical. His sharp optics observing those under his command, taking account of their body language, the subtlest reactions, and adapting his management accordingly. It’s no secret you admire him for it. When you first complimented him to his face, he seemed outright baffled, only to quickly recover and brush it off in his typical self-assured tone. He latches onto praise so easily, clinging onto your every word despite his rebuttals. It’s only natural you give him what he deserves. After being terrorized by the tyrant for eons, it’s the best you can offer him, no matter how meagre.“Interfacing” is… complicated to say the least, disregarding the major size difference. Your little trysts are kept a tight-lipped secret, and for that you are grateful; you would rather not tarnish his hard-earned reputation. He’s the one doing most of the touching, careful digits ghosting over flesh, shiny metal mesh pristine next to the moles and stretch marks staining your greasy skin. Occasionally, he presses his intake between your legs and pleasures you until you’re shaking. You don’t deserve it, yet he offers it in spades, stroking his beautiful spike in tandem with his talented glossa. Sometimes you get to do more; to bring your mouth to his anterior node and work his delicate valve until he overloads around your hand, a beautiful cyan turned purple under the red glow of his biolights. You’re so lucky to be around him, to see his softer side; optics half-lidded, wings reclined behind his back, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips; completely at ease in your presence. What makes you so special to him? You’ve asked him innumerable times and received little more than an eye roll and an order to stop wasting your energy on such trash. Is it really your fault? Your mind’s pointing out the obvious. He is sleek and elegant while you are little more than vermin in his presence. The thoughts have consumed you to a point your work has started to suffer; acceptable results have become mediocre or downright terrible.The seconds are ticking by. He has mentioned intending to “discuss” your recent drop in performance, and the mere notion of it makes you sick to your stomach. You brace yourself for disappointment, for the end of your ambiguous liaison, be it under blaster fire or a simple permanent dismissal from his habsuite. You’re sitting down, twiddling your thumbs, head hanging low awaiting your executioner's method. When he enters the room, your heart clenches in your chest, yet you do not dare meet his gaze. It only seems to enrage him further, he's already beaten down after a long day of dealing with the likes of Megatron.“Human,” he sneers, familiar disdain oozing from his voice. “Cease this needless self-pitying festivity at once!” “Or what?” you say numbly. Your uncharacteristic interruption stops him in his tracks, optics scanning your blank expression. “Are you going to end me now? After you’ve invested so much in this human fuck up?" you thumb at yourself. "Do it. It’s not like I’ve made any real progress anyway.” He furrows his optical ridge, contempt sketched into a sneer. “Alright. I see you are in no state to cooperate,” he responds, deceptively calm. He leans down to your height and offers you his servo. When you don’t climb in he lets out a furious ex-vent and grabs you. Eye to optic, dizzy from the sudden manhandling you should have grown accustomed to by now, you make no effort hiding the misery underlining the dark circles under your eyes. “If you wished to discuss such a trivial subject, then you should have brought it forth after my shift,” he thrusts a razor-sharp digit at your chest. “Trivial, huh?” You tilt your head for sarcastic emphasis. He sucks in a deep in-vent. “You have a single breem to speak your mind.” “Oh? 8.3 minutes? How awfully generous of you, Commander,” you mock, intending to waste every single second digging a grave to lie in. He looks just about ready to punt you out of an airlock when… “Why do you feel so inadequate?” The question feels like having a bowling ball dropped on your head. “What?” “Must I repeat myself?” he hisses.You pause, struggling to collect the words on your tongue. Each time you think you find the right answer, it dissolves right at the tip of your palette. Eventually, you give up and gesture at yourself in defeat.“Because look at me !” you snarl. “You’re… everything while I’m nothing compared to you!” He leans back, his anger at your outburst soon eclipsed by an odd (if not somewhat begrudging) sympathy. “You’re a human,” he points out matter-of-factly. “Is that not enough of a value indicator? Out of all the fleshbags scurrying around your planet, you are uniquely easy on the optics, rather tolerable and, might I add, competent in your field.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “But you could have gone for another Cybertronian. If we’re so inferior, why-” “Have you even met any of my subordinates?” he snaps. “If the crew had been different and the circumstances allowed it, maybe I would have entertained the notion. But I would rather tear out my audio receptors than be with the likes of them .” He shudders. He gingerly presses a claw to your cheek. “You’re worthy of my presence. There. Gratified? You should be,” he grumbles. You pull his digit into a hug and proceed to bawl your eyes out.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
How dare you forgive him?
After all he’s done; the abductions, the threats, the torture – you still looked upon his visage and refused to give in to ire.
“I know you’re a dick, but why do you want to be hated?” you asked him once, dangling your legs from the mezzanine, ignoring the two-wheeler’s fiery gaze boring a hole through his back.
“Is your processor malfunctioning?” he asked in return, crossing his arms and ignoring the watchful optics of the Autobots surrounding him. “After all I’ve done, hatred is the best I can hope for.”
“Nah, I think it’s deeper than that. I think you’re a sad little man who can’t even fathom genuine empathy.”
He would have grabbed your pathetic human frame and threatened to crush you if not for the yellow mech hovering around him looking after his own human pet.
Your disregard for your own safety led you to trail behind him on a cycle by cycle basis. “It’s not like we have anything better to do,” you said, jogging to keep up with his wide strides. “Besides, I think you can use the company. I can’t imagine being on your own for so long has done your mental health any favors.”
He suddenly stopped in his tracks, causing you to smash into his pede and fall down, clutching at your nose.
“Motherfuck-” you hissed.
“What makes you think I
want
your company?” He turned around and watched you wipe the blood from your face, trying not to cringe at the sight. “You are nothing but a useless fleshling.”
“There we go again with the avoidant behavior,” you said, grinning like you were in on a private joke. “I guess you really had it bad around the Decepticons, huh.”
“Preposterous!” He leaned down to thrust an indignant digit in your chest. “I was the Second in Command, my position was coveted by all. How
dare
you speak so lightly on matters beyond your comprehension!”
“Yeah sure,” you drawled, patting his digit dismissively. “I doubt it was that coveted once Megatron made his big fat return.”
Beyond his better judgement he snatched you up and brought you to optic level. You reeled in his grip, gaze flickering between the hard ground and his sneer. Initial fear and panic were replaced with… concern. “Ah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit this close to home.”
It was his turn to reel back. “I don’t need your apology!” he snarled.
“Maybe, but the offer still stands.” You looked up at him, concern softening the corners of your eyes. “Hey, I never hated you. Not even when I should have.” You chuckled. “Maybe you’re right and I really am insane for feeling this way compared to-” you gestured at the military base from across the dilapidated landing strip. “I just… I know how it feels like to be beaten down by everyone, both figuratively
and
literally.” A second chuckle escaped you, darker than the last.
“Hey! Everything okay out there?” Starscream nearly dropped you when the green mech shouted from the entrance, glaring daggers at him.
“It’s fine!” you called out, waving at the Autobot reassuringly. He scrutinized Starscream for a while longer.
“If he gives you any trouble don’t hesitate to say it!”
“Eh, I’ll be fine! He’s all bark no bite!”
He let out a bellowing laugh and left, but not without sparing Starscream one final scathing glance. He contemplated you in his servo, watching you uselessly wipe away the blood with your sleeve.
“Are you contemplating asking if I’m okay?” you asked with an infuriating smile.
“Absolutely
not
. Where did you even get such a revolting idea?”
You pointed behind him. “Your wings.”
He looked back and, sure enough, his wings were hanging low. How could the parts he was proudest off betray him so easily?
“You know,” you gingerly added, resting your chin in your hand, “I’ve always loved how expressive they are, especially their sleek design. It’s a shame there are so few seekers around. You’re all so elegant.”
He blinked at you. “I…
why of course
seekers have the most elegant frames!” He put a proud servo to his chest. “As annoying as you are, at least you can see true beauty when it’s in front of you!”
You flashed him a warm smile.
It’s been an… odd transition, to say the least. How you seem to have stuck by his side for the better part of six quartexes, ever the loyal turbofox. Things have gotten… heated between the two of you, although not by his initiation, of course. Praises come easy to you, and as much as he would like to reject your prattling… it feels nice to be finally recognized.
He has given into your sweet nothings because he has no better options left (nevermind having last interfaced millennia ago), allowing you to worship his spike with an adoration he hasn’t experienced since… frag, he can’t remember. Perhaps the power dynamic is different, having someone so small caress his interface array – someone who cannot hurt him in any way.
Safety. Is this what he craves? To let you stroke the sensitive plating of his wings and feel completely at ease? You’re no seeker, you can’t possibly understand their importance even
if
he explains it. Yet… there is respect in your gestures, carefully caressing them in his alt-mode, before and after the flights you indulge in. It’s a strange appreciation, your kind lacks the EM field to bond without physical touch, but this type of affection is… acceptable.
You’re exceedingly easy to overwhelm; throwing your head back when he presses his glossa between your legs, terribly
sensitive
to the slightest contact, singing sweetly as he pleasures you. You’re small and delicate in his servos, giving off a dainty charm, perhaps similar to that of a seeker if not for your fleshy mesh. Not that it’s of any importance anymore.
Going as far as to properly interface with you has been… nerve wracking. Can you come close to understanding what it means to him? To be in such a vulnerable position? Maybe so from the manner in which you submit to him, accepting being completely at his mercy. Mass displacement is, surprisingly enough, useful outside of war; allowing him to embrace you as your hands trail up and down his wings. He never could have imagined humans were so… warm and welcoming.
You take him so well for something so small, swallowing up the entirety of his spike in spite of your limits, gazing up at him with a dazed look in your eyes and giving him a thumbs up in tone deaf reassurance. Oh you never learn. When he attempts to kiss you, you allow him to explore at his leisure, snaking your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Your legs tighten around his waist when you’re reaching overload, eagerly grinding against his spike until he’s forced to pin you down and put you in your place.
“Don’t rush it,” he purrs, trailing the back of a digit down your cheek. “Consider this my first proper “apology”, so be a dear and accept it.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You’re in trouble.
Big fucking trouble.
You can stay in your little lab all you want, fiddling with genetic samples with the grace of a high schooler dissecting a frog, lacking your usual precision. Yes, you got yourself into it. No, your past self refuses to apologize to the current you. And while you may understand what pushed the old you to make this decision a week ago, personal growth isn’t going to do shit after the stunt you’ve pulled.
Starscream is your abductor, yes, but he’s also your “guardian” so to speak; the Decepticon responsible for your continued wellbeing. This has not stopped him from threatening your life back when you were being “rescued” from your old job, but there’s no use dwelling on it. The point is, there’s a degree of mutual trust between the two of you. In exchange for a wide variety of resources and access to
actual
alien technology, you’ve been hard at work handling projects he’s tossed your way.
You pride yourself in it, because who
wouldn’t
after spending decades perfecting their craft? Or getting into a ludicrous amount of student debt… Your stint with the government was, admittedly, your lowest point; MK-Ultra 2.0 type experiments you only agreed to as a morally and financially bankrupt newcomer with a grudge against society as a whole after working half a decade in retail. To say you regret it is to put it lightly. At the very least the Decepticons are honest about their intentions, no “protecting the people” rhetoric; if they’re going to cyberform the Earth then you’ll be there with your bucket of popcorn watching it all unfold.
Although, past you wasn’t quite as eager. Guilt racked your brain, tormented you well into the night, reminded you every waking moment you could only be an instrument in someone else’s plan, a pawn that would unquestionably follow its master even if it meant digging its own grave. Yes, you’re doing better now (you think), and you were concealing the secret just fine until you misjudged the boiling point of an experimental concoction and got a face-full of glass. It could have been worse, you had shielded yourself with your arms, earning only a couple scars on your face (and a frightening amount on your arms).
That’s when Knock Out came in. Oh Knock Out. You
cunt
. Of course he was being too kind; it wasn’t from the chunks of glass he was removing with a pair of forceps, nor the tears of pain running down your face (you honestly expected him to go “Ew” and toss a blanket over your head so he wouldn’t have to look). It’s because he had seen the week-old cut along your arm. He didn’t make a fuss, didn’t point it out, didn’t so much as pause while treating you. Oh no – he sent you a message first thing in the morning informing you he relayed the extra detail to Starscream and sent you the Cybertronian equivalent of a shrug emoji. Your first reaction was to threaten his life through text, which he responded to with an eyeroll.
This leaves you here, waiting at your post, counting down the seconds to doomsday, hands shaking cursing yourself for spilling the (thankfully non-corrosive) substance down the beaker. You
try
to seem casual when the door opens up. You
try
to steady your breathing when you feel his footsteps. You
try
to put down the beaker and greet him – which drops and shatters.
Staring down at your work, mouth agape, you don’t have the strength to look him in the optic after three major blunders in under 24 hours. Although it’s hard to avoid his gaze when he commands your attention with his presence alone.
“Hey,” you say, sweating profusely. “Nice day we’re having. Out here in space, I mean.”
His expression is one of exasperated frustration.
“Oh don’t
patronize
me.” He scoops you up like a naughty kitten, glaring daggers at you. “Show me,” he orders.
You cradle your arm to your chest. “But, Knock Out bandaged it yesterday-”
“Are you
trying
to waste my time?”
You hang your head low and undo the wrappings at a snail’s pace, desperately stalling, praying for
anything
to intervene and pull Starscream away so you can scramble under your desk and hyperventilate in peace. But your boss doesn’t have time to waste. He groans dramatically before plucking your arm and tearing through the bandages in one clean cut of his talon.
“I swear it’s not that bad,” you say, the antithesis of convincing, cringing inside as he observes the scars in eerie silence.
The expression he wears is unreadable. His optics drag from your arm to your face. You swallow.
“It’s just a scratch-”
“No,” he cuts you off, voice bursting with anger. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“Wait I didn’t mean it that way-”
“Shut up.” He glowers down at you, claws tightening around your arm. “I will remind you, human, that you are an
investment
. And I won’t have my investments break of their own volition. So tell me,” he drags you closer, sending a sudden burst of pain which you dare not show, “
why
would you do it?”
“I… I don’t… I don’t know how to explain,” you whisper.
He scoffs and rolls his optics. “Is it so difficult to collaborate? If you won’t tell me, then I can’t help you.”
The words ring in your ears. You go weak in the knees. “Help me?” you echo, incredulity heavy on your tongue.
He flashes you a look of utter confusion. “What? Did you think I would punish you? Oh,
please
, it’s not my modus operandi. I have a more refined manner of supervising my subordinates compared to… I’m sure you can guess whom. Now stop wasting my time, and tell me
why
.”
“Uh… it’s a long story,” you babble, still reeling from his words.
“Then shorten it, I don’t have all cycle.”
“I’ve been plagued with some… pretty horrendous thoughts at night, among,” you vaguely gesture at your makeshift lab, “the stress of deadlines.”
He contemplates you, arching an optical ridge. It feels… strangely human compared to the apathetic stares of your old bosses. You’re a number here just the same, except it will be significantly more difficult to replace you.
“I can’t change the deadlines,” he starts in an oddly soft tone, scrutinizing your reaction. “However, I can procure the proper medication to avoid another incident. .”
You flash him a bewildered look. “Antidepressants?” you ask incredulously.
“I was referring to something along the lines of ambien or adderall.” He releases your arm and taps his chin. “Perhaps both considering your current state.”
“Oh…” You blink. “I didn’t expect you to know this much about human pharmaceuticals.”
He scoffs again, putting an offended servo to his chassis. “Unlike us, you humans are exceptionally fragile, mentally and physiologically. I had anticipated some manner of a breakdown, although not this severe.”
“So am I forgiven?” you ask, a mild attempt at sarcasm to clear the ambiance. It earns you a glare.
“No,” he declares unsurprisingly. “I will be confiscating the hazardous materials.”
You cock an eyebrow and point at the glass vials behind you, two of which are very obviously missing from the rack (and one whose pieces are mostly dislodged from your arm).
He ex-vents loudly, slapping a servo to his face. “I was referring to the sharp instruments in your possession.” His voice is muffled.
“Fair enough,” you say.
“And B09F will be dispensing your medication.”
“A bit excessive. But sure.”
He scowls at you between his digits. He seems… terribly overworked. Cybertronians don’t have eyebags, but you swear there are dark lines under his optics.
You clear your throat and avoid eye contact. “Thank you. I appreciate it quite a bit. You’re much better than my previous employer.” Said previous employer orchestrate your kidnapping and made you work towards humanity’s downfall with a blaster to your head. This, you leave out completely.
He freezes for a split second. Slowly, he removes his servo to contemplate you better. “Odd,” he remarks. “I thought humanity would treat you better as one of their own.” A smile spreads across his face. “No matter. At least
someone
can appreciate the effort I put into running a tight ship.”
You return his smile in spades. “I’m sure I’m not the only one.”
“Flattery won’t work on me,” he scoffs. A moment passes by. He opens up an optic like a dog waiting to be pet. “Well?” he urges.
“Uh… I’m sure others admire you just as much as I? You’re… the best commander on the ship? You’re the most competent person I know?... You’re a better father than my dad ever was?”
His optics snap open. “Are you comparing me to your genetic progenitor?”
“To an extent? In the sense that you’re a better mentor and guardian than mine ever was.”
He squints at you. “You humans are terrible towards your own kind. Although I suppose I should accept your compliment.” His wings flick in a show of… begrudging content. “Now, take the rest of the day off.”
You beam up at him.
“With the condition you’re bound to your quarters.”
You look down in disappointment.
“Fine, you can roam around the perimeter as long as B09F chaperons you.”
“Sure thing dad,” you say in an attempt at humor.
He furrows his optical ridge. “If you start calling me "daddy" I'm tossing you out the airlock.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Is this what it means to be loved?Claws stroking over your shivering form with reverence and respect, you’ve never felt more at ease. There is adoration in their optics. Skyquake’s blaze like a forest fire, all passion and hunger for what your human body can give. Dreadwing’s stream down your frame like rain on a hot summer day – soaking you in the comfort of his touch.Their servos are equal parts frigid and searing, overwhelming you with sensations and textures you’ve never experienced with another of your kind. Their ex-vents are warm against your flesh, lips brushing over your neck and back. For the very first time in your measly little life, you’re being worshiped.What do they see in you? You’re trapped between two colossuses of unfathomable greatness, two honorable beings choosing to stoop down to your size if only to experience your finite nature. Their digits find their way inside of you, dull claw-tips caressing sweet nerves to prepare you for what’s to come. Skyquake’s spikes are too large to enter you at the same time; one of them rests pulsating on your stomach, the other stretches you, pain molding into pleasure. His brother’s servos stroke your thighs encouragingly, parting them for his twin; you’re certain the favor will be returned. Skyquake wastes no time thrusting into you, praises dripping off his glossa as his fragile human does the impossible and takes a mech of his size. Dreadwing’s interface panel is yet to open, but you swear you can feel it overheating behind you, cooling fans running at maximum capacity.It’s not long until Skyquake spills himself, growling and digging his claws into the berth. The knot swelling inside of you burns, stretching your walls to their limits. You don’t mind the transfluid coating your stomach, you can barely feel your own body by the time he kisses you, struggling to stop himself from devouring your lips. You shudder as Dreadwing’s digit draws circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs, drawing out overload after overload, making you clench around his brother’s spike. It causes Skyquake to hiss and grind his hips against yours.When he pulls out with a wet pop, Dreadwing quickly takes his place. His members are thinner. At first he starts with only one of them, testing your limits before he slips the other in. Together, they’re bigger than Skyquake’s spike, but your previous orgasms make the transition smoother; easing your walls for him to fit completely. He handles you with awe as if mystified by your capabilities, shallow thrusts keeping his spikes mostly sheathed inside of your tiny body. He calls your determination admirable, which makes you laugh and smile up at him, declaring you’re just in for the ride. A startled noise escapes you when Skyquake holds your thighs up, pressing your knees to your chest, pushing your flexibility. Dreadwing reproaches his brother, but you chuckle and give a thumbs up, urging him to continue; hesitantly, he does as asked. He lasts longer than his twin, making love to your smaller form until he eventually overloads with a groan, bracing himself over you. His spikes twitch, knots pressing up against each other inside of you in what must be the best accidental self-service. Skyquake lets go of your legs and gives his brother space to plant a needy kiss on your lips, polite as ever, concealing the full extent of his desperation. Skyquake presses his digit to the very same sensitive bud, guiding you to orgasm after orgasm, inner walls clamping down on his brother’s spikes. Dreadwing winces.“Brother, stop,” he orders, servos on either side of your thighs. From your angle, you can hardly see Skyquake’s expression – but from what you can tell, he looks extremely smug. “What? I’m simply repaying your kindness in full,” he answers, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his intake. Dreadwing seizes his twin’s servo without hurting your abused genitals.“Not when it turns painful,” he says, glaring at his brother who seems twice as amused.You snort at the display, earning two arched optical ridges. “Damn, you guys are adorable.” Your hand finds Dreadwing’s servo, addressing both of them. “Thank you. It’s definitely… the best frag of my life.” His golden face is coated in blue blush. “Anything for you,” Skyquake’s voice rumbles above. He places his servo over your free hand.Together, they look down at you like you’re their greatest treasure; splayed across the berth, disheveled hair, wide eyed, panting, transfluid smeared across your skin.“It’s the least we can give,” his brother says, brushing the hair from your face.Tears are pricking your eyes.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Breakdown carries you in his tits. I don’t know what you were expecting, but he carries you in his goddamn tiddies. You see the crook of his neck? You see his badonkers? You’re comfortably napping between those two spots, snoring like mimimimi while he participates in war crimes. As long as he isn’t actively fighting anyone (Primus forbid there’s a 99.9% chance you’ll get crushed), he’s perfectly content having his human napping in his chassis. Every thirty minutes or so he pokes your head to make sure you’re still alive. The heat of his frame always has you falling into a comfortable coma, who needs a heated blanket when you have a giant mech with massive tits – you’ve become a bara enjoyer with an oppai twist. When in his small habsuite (thank Primus officers get their separate rooms compared to regular vehicons - otherwise he wouldn’t be able to experience you in peace), he’s eager to hold you in his servos and pet you. He can’t resist your squishiness, you’re so soft and small and sometimes he feels like he needs to take a moment to calm down before cute aggression gets the best of him and you become a red splatter in his palms.Soundwave treats you like his discord kitten. When he’s off duty (which, to be fair, is ridiculously rare), he places you in his lap while he types away on his Cybertronian evil gamer PC. Who knows what he’s doing, you understand absolutely none of the words (not even a letter), but you’re happy resting your head against his abdominal plating. It’s easy to fall asleep with him around; the heat of his vents, the soft flicker of the digital keyboard… Laserbeak brushing a tendril over your face to wake you up because you missed dinner again napping on his host. Said host always picks you up once he snaps out of his gamer trance, whether by hand (a comical sight) or by tendril (still comical, but add a hint of hentai), and places you on his table like a hungry kitten (a literal one this time). You get your meal, eat it in front of him because he so rarely gets to watch you feed, then he’ll return to his post with you in his lap, maybe with a pillow and blanket to rest properly. If not, he’ll cuddle you before recharge, lying on his berth with his favorite human on his chassis, idly scritching your head with his digit until you eventually toggle your discord status to “Do not disturb” and fall asleep. He’ll gently tuck you into your tiny human nest and fall into recharge after combing through the 23930 pictures he’s taken of you napping and making a top ten of his favorites.Dreadwing is… in the top three busiest members of High Command (disregarding whatever the hell Megatron has going on – high on space crack waxing about his big boner for Unicron or stomping around the Nemesis sniffing out minor mistakes) – so finding the time to cuddle is difficult. Thankfully, if you look sopping wet and miserable enough, he’ll give in and let you stay in his cockpit; insides shifting to allow for a full view from the pilot’s seat. It feels like piloting a mecha, except it’s actually being in baby jail while Dreadwing files paperwork. For someone with a whole living being inside of him, he’s coping pretty well – his internal view of you may be infrared, but he’s still keeping a close eye just in case claustrophobia takes hold. He’s monitoring your heart rate, occasionally asking how you’re coping. And if it’s not going great, well – he’s bringing you back to his habsuite until further notice before returning to work. When his shift eventually ends, however, he’s happy to have you rest in the crook of his neck, burying your face in the soft protomatter while he gently runs a digit over your spine. He’s honored to have gained your trust, to be your pillar to lean on. And once you start snoring, he resigns himself to his fate as a glorified heater/couch.Skyquake aims to show you nothing but respect – respect in the form of carrying you around like a dearly beloved chihuahua. Can’t hold you at work? No problem. Get in the cockpit. Bored in there? You’re now in the crook of his neck. Forgive him if his passion is out of hand; you’re so very precious and he has no shame bringing you along (once you agree to it). If you’re chilling on his desk, he’s going to pet you – it’s the best physical affection he can give at his size, and who are you to refuse? His claws may sometimes leave red marks in their wake, but you’re too lost in the sauce to care – his scritches are amazing even if you end up sore the next morning. When off-shift, he’s happy cradling you against his chassis, servo acting as a weighted blanket, engine rumbling beneath you, a terrifying noise in of itself, but less so when it’s coming from your favorite jet. He returns your affection tenfold, any brush against his face will get a claw rubbing up and down your frame. He’s eager to give back what he receives, he’s been in stasis for so long the smallest contact is enough to make him go feral. Now have fun being trapped in the servos of an uber-affectionate aircraft for the rest of the day.Starscream is a prissy bitch. He’s very particular about physical contact, especially with a human on the Nemesis. He’s running the ship 24/7, and the bastard is unwilling to do more than hold you when others are nearby, so cuddling is constantly off-limits. Only in the privacy of his habsuite does he allow himself to be touched, and he’s the one doing most of the touching. He enjoys rubbing the back of a talon against your cheek, especially when you’re actively leaning into him. He can scoff and call you needy all he wants, but he’s desperate for your physical affection. Please stroke him, nuzzle his face and make him feel adored if only for a few minutes. He melts into your touch, offlining his optics to bathe into the tenderness until you pull away. Then, he starts acting like a dog whose belly you’ve stopped rubbing, shooting you the most offended look he can muster (which says a lot from the world’s angriest metal chicken). He’ll chastise you, demanding more and more even as your wrist cramps up – and after days missing your chronically stressed out birdman, who are you to refuse?Knock out is an attention whore who knows how to get what he wants. He takes fantastic care of his finish, and this (tragically) extends to his human. No, don’t hug him, he just finished buffing himself and he’s too tired to wash off the organic grease. Ugh, fine! Too late now… enjoy the moment while it lasts, but make sure to ask next time else you’ll be back in the vivarium as punishment until he gets his shine back. No, you can’t be in his cab while he’s performing surgery. He won’t lose a patient all because you can’t keep your grubby hands off his interior. But when he can spend time with you, well, he knows just where to rub to get your undivided attention. He can make you lose yourself in his touch; sink into him as he strokes under your chin, cooing praises in that silky voice. Maybe humanity is perverted to the core, there’s nothing sexual about the way he sets you in his lap to keep him company while filing reports, but you’re stiff as a pole in there, as though you’re cosplaying his spike. Lord forbid he catches onto the reason behind your awkwardness, he won’t let you live it down. Your perversions are being taken advantage of; if he so much as flashes a sultry look in your direction, you turn into putty. He’s quick to laugh and call you sweetspark, which just makes the blushing worse and – oh no – now you’ve buried your face in your hands, screaming into them while he teases you for being so receptive to his touch. If you have the misfortune of dozing off next to him, he’s going to poke you until you wake up – call you cute – let you fall asleep again – then start the process all over. Knock Out lives to annoy you. Airachnid is a menace. As her precious trophy, she has no problem holding onto you, digits gently drumming across your ribcage, lounging with her thumb against your throat. Cuddling her is more akin to being taken hostage, listening to her monologue about how fragile your poor organic body is, and how easy it is to strip flesh from bone. Or would you rather be taxidermied? She’s just teasing, sweetspark. Don’t you worry your pretty little helm. Truly, hanging around her feels like going against all natural instincts and letting a black widow drag its fangs across your neck. But betraying your ancestors to cuddle a giant spider lady is worth it (or so you hope). Sometimes, she allows you the freedom to lie on her chassis; a chance to hear the pulsing of her spark and the dull thrum of her fuel pump. “How many have been this close to her?” you ask yourself as you feel the low whirring of her cooling fans. Yeah, she may be threatening your life on a daily basis, but she hasn’t killed you (yet). She cares in her own twisted way. Sure, Airachnid is tormenting you by pressing the tip of her claw into your Adam's apple, but that’s par for the course with her. Embrace her objectifying adoration, it’s either eat or be eaten – and she’s the one with the fangs Megatron shamelessly parades his human around the Nemesis. You are his to keep, his to indulge in whenever he pleases. Admittedly, there is power in keeping this Goliath on a leash - you’re the only thing standing between innocent soldiers trying to do their jobs and their bloodthirsty boss. Wherever he goes, you’re coming with – caged in his servo, being leered at like a juicy piece of meat. He delights in making everyone uncomfortable with your presence alone. Yes, they all know he’s fragging the organic. No, they can’t say anything without risking his anger – the dilemma entertains him to no end, especially when they’re desperately avoiding eye contact as his digits slip underneath your frame coverings. “It’s some sort of sick powerplay,” you tell yourself – but you’d be lying if you claimed it wasn’t getting you off. Either you sit in his lap while he reclines on his throne, claws trailing dangerously close to the waistband of your pants; or he’s nuzzling your whole body, bathing in the natural unease he elicits. Who knows, he may start lapping at your neck to feel your pulse against his glossa, earning a startled squeak; only to laugh and keep at it. Out of everyone on the ship, you happen to be this beast’s favorite chew toy.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He loathes fleshies.Or so he claims. It doesn’t take a genius to realize he’s full of shit. Then again, you lack the self-preservation to avoid him like the plague.You can’t help yourself, he’s so utterly pathetic yet charming, the prettiest rat in the sewer system. You’ve spent more time than you care to admit hanging around the likes of him. Yeah, he’s annoying and his voice sounds like nails against a chalkboard – but you’ve never had the best taste in men. Or extraterrestrials for that matter.Through the months spent together, you’ve patiently listened to his frustrations and innumerable plans to depose Megatron and take his rightful place as the new leader of the Decepticons. He doesn’t want a second opinion (and frankly you know better than to offer yours) – and you’ve come to see him for what he truly is: a child desperate for attention.Usually, he’s the one lying next to you, resting his chin on his crossed arms, leaning into your touch as he goes on and on about whatever’s bothering him. He mellows out, eventually. Powering down for a minute or two, only to come back online and pick up where he last left off.He’s flighty (pun not-intended on your part), always on the move, coming up with new schemes to infodump about for hours on end while stroking your head with his digit. A villain petting his cat while monologuing.You don’t mind it. Any sane person would, but you don’t. He comes to you insulted Megatron won’t give him the time of day, and you happily give him the attention he craves; caressing his helm until his rambling slows and his voice softens.Things got weird after he admitted your species wasn’t so bad. Was it an attempt at flirtation? You didn’t know enough about Cybertronian courting to recognize the obvious signs. Wings held high – EM field wrapping itself around yours. Humans, as he told you, have a primitive version of it – which makes it all the more impressive he went out of his way to reach for yours. Light as a breeze, yes. But undisputedly there.Either you’re the chosen one, meant to commute with aliens and establish peace on an intergalactic scale, or (most likely) he’s wasting energy trying to rizz you up the Cybertronian way instead of googling how humans flirt.Actually – you’re glad he didn’t. Knowing him, he would have stumbled upon “fratboy tips and tricks to bagging gals” and become insufferable as a result.You’re not sure how you got together – it just happened after days of watching him strut around like a preening peacock,Your parts are – to put it lightly – completely incompatible. Talk about jamming a brick into a blueberry-sized hole. No human being can survive what he’s packing. But you make it work. There’s more to interface than spike to valve action – or so he told you. And frankly, you have to agree.Exploration is a given considering your anatomical differences. There is little you can cover at your size, which he finds hilarious. Instead, he’s the one running his digits over you, delighting in your softness. Sure, he may be self-absorbed and his favorite subjects involve he, himself and him, but he’s scarily good at analyzing your reactions. Or… maybe you’re just easy to read. Eh, either way, it doesn’t make a difference.He learns fast, and he’s quick to rub where you’re most sensitive. It would be nice if he stopped teasing you for once; he makes you beg for it, draws out your pleas until your voice cracks and frustrated tears stream down your face.You could be cruel, give him a taste of his own medicine so to speak. But you’re weak. It only takes a glimpse into his eyes and the faintest prickle of static in his vox to convince you. He knows you cannot satisfy him properly – not that he actually cares.His spike is warm in your hands, biolights pulsating like stars in the night sky. It takes the slightest kiss for him to dig his claws into the ground and demand you continue.And who are you to refuse? You’ve learned when to pull back lest you swallow too much and get sick, wiping the transfluid from his tip. If he’s noticed this in his sea of pleasure, he’s never mentioned it – too focused on the mouth diligently working his spike.When he’s feeling generous, he slips a digit inside of you – but if you hiss in discomfort, he switches to rubbing the dull end of his claw across your clit, making you moan against his spike until you’re wet enough to take his digit.It’s his way of rewarding you, the best “thanks for the orgasm” he can give. He doesn’t last long, but he refuses to stop fingering until you cum and he feels your walls clamp around him.Once everything is all over, he acts all proud of himself, back to preening like a peacock with you curled up in his lap. For all his faults, Starscream cares in his own unique way.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Knock Out always goes first.Breakdown doesn’t mind it. At least he shouldn’t. He knows he’ll have his turn with you. Everyone does.Second or seventh place, it doesn’t matter. He should be grateful to have a chance. Just like he should be grateful he didn’t lose more than one optic. Or the feeling in his left arm. Or his honor.Again, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. It’s his turn. No superior waiting at your habsuite, no humiliating dismissal (obviously, they don’t mean for it to seem humiliating – they’re his superiors after all, and he has to obey them) – only you in the midst of your heat cycle.The “breeding room”, as you jokingly call it, is actually Knock Out’s old habsuite. Repurposed, yeah, but he’s been here enough times to recognize it. Any Con worth their ball-bearings can upgrade after reaching third class. Knock Out used to be a first class. Then he was promoted to Chief Medical Officer and skipped a rank.Breakdown is stuck in second class. Better than first. Better than being a vehicon. He should be satisfied.You’re curled up in your oversized berth on top of the heating pad.“Hey, squishy,” he whispers, taking his usual place next to you. “Don’t tell me Knock Out tired you out.”Your answer is a snort. You stretch, flesh poking out from under your frame coverings. A common sight by now - but his cooling fans didn’t get the memo. His frame vibrates with their familiar hum.“Like what you see handsome?” you ask and scuttle up to him, wearing that precious spark-warming smile. He returns it full force.“What can I say? Even a one-opticced oaf can recognize true beauty.”“Careful, partner. There’s only so much I can take before jumping on your spike.”He barks a laugh.“It may come sooner than you think.”“Bring it. I’m ready to deepthroat until your system reboots. But first -” you huff as you climb into his lap, waving away the servo he’s offering. Once comfortably seated in his lap, you cheekily rub your aft against his interface panel.“Spill the tea, sis.”“Hmph…” He drums his digits over his thigh. “We’ve had a record break in the mines! I haven’t seen them this happy in quartexes. There was a small party at homebase, squad’s been celebrating with engex.”“Homemade?”“Nah – I’ve checked. I won’t let them pull that stunt again.” He winces at the memory.B15F. Poor scrapper’s been euthanized well before his time. There wasn’t much left to save. The engex melted right through his fuel tanks. Breakdown didn’t pride himself on morality anymore – none of them did. But it was the right call – even if the uncertainty is tearing through his circuitry like a horde of scraplets. Could Knock Out have fixed B15F? Or maybe it would’ve just dragged out his suffering for a chance at nothing. His partner had studied at a bigshot academy – Breakdown’s knowledge’s based around rushed medical training.“You okay, big guy?”He snaps out of it.“Yeah! Everything’s good.” You can’t see his reassuring smile with his massive chassis in the way. But maybe if he keeps it up he’ll really mean it.“You sure? You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”His smile falters. If a human has noticed it… who else has? Is this why Dreadwing’s been especially tolerant of his mistakes? Scrap, Breakdown almost misses his commanding officer’s reproaches. Could he get any more pitiful for frag’s sake? Proving himself after losing an optic to fleshies is bad enough. He’s not an invalid – he won’t be demoted to janitorial duties after working his aft off to make it this far.“Workload’s been pretty intense. Been on my mind a lot.” He adds a chuckle to convince you – but he can’t see your expression with his chassis in the way.“Bad enough for the vehicons to get blackout drunk again?”“Found them recharging in mine carts.”“Just like a college frat party, huh?” He has no idea what that means. Doesn’t stop him from laughing, though.“You should’ve seen them getting out! The sight brought lubricant to my optic.”“Scrambling like turtles stuck on their backs?” Oh – those, he definitely remembers.“Better. Remember that video you sent of the cat-looking thing surrounded by fermented fruits?”“The raccoon?”“Yeah! Struggling to sit up, then falling back in again!”You snort louder. “Ah. An absolute classic. You should totally film it next time, I would kill to see it.”“Oof. I’d love to, but I’m not sure I can do that while on shift. Ask Soundwave. Nothing escapes him.” Especially any contamination of the medbay – his processor shudders at the memory. At least it wasn’t Commander Starscream. Fooling around’s been kept to Knock Out’s habsuite ever since. And outside the ship, but that’s not the Intelligence Officer’s business.“More than you know…” you say. Your tiny digits sneakily stroke the protomatter between his hip and thigh. The touch isn’t sensual. At least he doesn’t think it’s supposed to be. You’re not shy about squeezing, biting or running your glossa over it. This feels different. Hesitant.“You know… you rarely visit first.”He sputters. “It’s not that I don’t want to or anything!” He shifts his frame and cranes his neck to take a good look at you. No success. “It’s that… I’m still a soldier, and they’re my superiors.”“I know that, silly. I’m talking about how you always let Knock Out have the first go at me before either of your shifts start. Why is that?”“I…” He shakes his helm. “Come on, second place doesn’t make any difference. As long as I get to pay you a visit, I’m happy!” His vox is strained. He meant to sound cheerful. What came out felt like rust being scraped off mesh.You sink your digits into his thigh. Not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt. A single fleshie can’t hurt a Cybertronian. But it’s clearly meant as a warning. Even he can tell that.“Dude, just ask to go first. Knock Out is lovely and all, but you shouldn’t neglect yourself for his sake. I want you to come around and let loose before anyone else. Hell, you deserve it. Do you want me to ask Megatron personally? I can do that, no prob-”“No!” It comes out too desperate. “No,” he repeats. Softer. “The others don’t do well with favorites. Uh… except maybe Soundwave, but he doesn’t count.” Breakdown cringes. He wants no part in their power struggles, especially Commander Starscream’s. Else he’d end up at the barrel of his Master’s cannon.“Okay… but my point still stands. Ask Knock Out to reschedule next time orr I’m bringing Megatron into this.”His vents huff, servos drawn into fists.“Got it,” he relents. “I’ll talk to him, but if he refuses-”“He won’t refuse,” you say none-too-softly. “We’ve had a chat post-coitus.”He blinks.“You cannot be serious.”“Low and behold, I am. What? Did you expect me not to address it?”“He’s going to be furious at me.”“Like hell. If he so much as lifts a digit, I’ll be happy to inform Megatron and get him put in his place. He’s your superior in the medbay, not outside of it last I checked. And trust me, I’ve been checking.”He clenches his jaw and offlines his optic.“We’re not…” he starts gently, leveling his words carefully. “We’re not Newsparks. There’s a balance we’ve established on the Nemesis. All of us. Bringing Lord Megatron into this won’t offset the balance. It’ll destroy it. What we have here,” he gestures at the small habsuite. “Is thanks to his generosity. I don’t want to lose this because of some petty interface stuff. If he intervenes… I doubt we’ll still be able to visit.”There’s a long pause. He gives you the time to mull it over. An apology already on his glossa.“I understand. I know it’s not my place to call the shots. Part of me wishes that…” You swallow. “Part of me wishes that I could make things easier for you guys. You’ve all been through so much, and I know I’m only the ship’s resident pet or whatever, but I can throw my weight around a bit. You know, use my position for good?”“For good? Primus, you’re already doing us enough good!”“Hm, not exactly. You’re the ones helping me with my heat when he’s not around. Ugh – I would be suffering without you guys.” You squeeze his thigh. “Man-” you laugh nervously. “I hope I’m not getting too sappy. You’re, like, the only one I can have these conversations with.”His fans stutter. “Really? Not even Lord-”“Not even,” you repeat with finality.There’s a comfortable silence. Breakdown is smiling to himself.“Hey, big guy.”“Yeah, squishy?”“Wanna kiss?”“Is that even a question?” he asks as he picks you up from his lap, servos cradling your fragile human frame.“Mmm, you know the answer.” You touch the sides of his face. His cooling fans flip to the second setting. Your hands are soft. Incredibly soft. His vents cease functioning entirely as you kiss him. Your glossa is warm and wet. His circuits crackle with charge. How could something so small push his systems into overdrive?When you pull away, he’s left cold and yearning.You don’t waste a klik undressing yourself, tossing your frame coverings over his servos and onto the berth. His lips find yours again. You devour his intake like your fuel tanks are empty.Knock Out satiated you groons ago, but you’re already running hot with want.His heavy engine purrs.“Someone’s eager to get spiked,” he mutters against your intake. You ex-vent sharply and kiss again, grinning against his lips.He slides a digit between your legs, which you immediately part. There’s still feeling in this one, taking in the heat of your slick valve. There’s no trace of your last interface, only a craving for more.A hiss escapes you as he rubs the digit over your minuscule anterior node. Your hips buck into him, teeth grazing his lip.“Please, stop teasing already. You know I can’t take it.”“I’m not a tease - that’s Knock Out’s job.” He swipes his glossa over your intake. “I’m the total opposite. So, what do you say? Is your little valve ready to take my spike?”Your optics widen, lubricating in excitement.“Oh finally!” You press your helm against his. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this! I’m so glad the recent energon haul got you enough to mass displace.”“Actually, I’ve been rationing my energon for a deca-cycle!”You step away from his helm and look at him in… strange horror.“You what?” There’s pity in your optics and disappointment furrowing your optical ridge.Oh frag him! Why did he have to open his intake?“It’s nothing to worry about, I swear! I’ve done this plenty of times in the past – there was this time my unit was stranded in the Sea of Rust and there was no energon for almost a whole deca-cycle! Impressive, right? You don’t see any seekers surviving that!”Your horrified expression worsens.“What do you mean you’ve been starving yourself for weeks just to mass displace and fuck me?”“Come on, it’s not really starving! We bots can deal with it better than you humans!” he stammers, engine revving in panic.“It’s not about that – it’s about sacrificing yourself for… for this!” you gesture at your body. “Fuck’s sake, you could have told me! I was waiting for you to ask! I could have gotten you the energon ages ago!”“Then why didn’t you?” The words smash through his intake before he can stop them, leaving him to clean up the mess.His spark tightens when you flinch. It’s the first time he’s startled you. The first time he’s seen you scared.“I… I didn’t…” Your gaze falls.“Scrap, I’m so sorry! It’s not my place to say it, I didn’t mean-”“It’s fine,” you gently stop him. He immediately yields. “You don’t have to apologize. I just… didn’t expect it to be this bad.” A sigh leaves your intake. “I still want to help, though. If Knock Out can mass displace almost every time he visits, isn’t there plenty of energon to go around? Don’t you also work in the medbay on top of everything? You deserve at least the same amount of rations.”“It’s more complicated than that,” he mutters. “Knock Out outranks me.”“So? You’re just one bot, it won’t drain the reserves.”He presses a servo to his helm. “My frame type’s the issue. Us warrior class bots need far more energon than the average vehicon.”“Yes, and? You’re still just one more war frame. Who else is there? Megatron, Dreadwing – that makes three.” You bite your lip when you meet his optic. “Let me give you a hand. I’ll leave the whole thing with Knock Out alone if you let me help with this.”“I…”His vents huff. “Okay. I’ll let you take care of it. But, please tell him not to summon me. Else it’ll seem suspicious.”A smile tugs at the corner of your intake. “Got it. Easier done than said.”Hesitating, you reach out to touch his cheekplate. He leans in.You take a deep in-vent.“I’m sorry for blowing up like that. I’ve been so worried about everyone lately, I’ve overstepped so many boundaries. The energon thing just… drove me off the edge.”“It’s okay,” he says, unsure of his own words. “It happens to the best of us. If it’s any comfort,” he grimaces, “Knock Out’s been riding my tailpipe about my energon intake for the whole deca-cycle. That’s why I… tried to keep it a secret. Until now.”“Did it work on him?”“Frag no!” He laughs. “For all his drawbacks, he’s the closest thing to a doctor on this ship. Noticing something’s wrong’s part of his primary code!”His laughter dies down.“Sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I definitely ruined the mood.”“Not at all.” You press your cheek against his. “If it’s any comfort on my part, I’ve been called someone else’s name during interface.”His optic buzzes in its socket.“Who?” he demands without meaning to. “Who?” He repeats, far softer – now a polite question.“No one in High Command, sadly,” you say like you’ve read his mind, adding an apologetic shrug. “Another human before the alien shebang happened.”“Ah.” He averts his optic to hide his disappointment.“Come on, man. You know I would have immediately rung you up if Starscream had been moaning Megatron’s name during overload.”He cracks a smile. “I guess you’re right.”“Gossip girls forever?” You offer your fist.“Gossip girls forever,” he agrees, tapping it with his digit.You both mimic an explosion and draw your servos away in slow motion.“Still not sure what explosive punches have to do with gossip.”“Shhh - it’s a human bestie thing.”You kiss him again. Gently at first, then harsher with his wordless encouragement – your hunger makes his engine rev.“Want to start with valve to glossa action? How about we keep mass-displacement for the final course?”“Like I’ll ever refuse a free refueling.”You snicker. The noise is so precious it makes his joints weak.Lying on his abdomen with you in his servos, you writhe as he presses his glossa to your valve.“Fuck,” you hiss.“You okay?” he’s unable to hide the smugness in his tone. “I thought Knock Out had the first taste.”“Fuck Knock Out. I need your glossa right now. No one else’s.”His fans shudder.Once, handling someone so small was circuit-frying. He’d been with plenty of minicons, but never an organic. Those bots could take a good pounding. Fleshies? Not so much.“Fuck.” You shiver as his glossa rubs up and down your pretty valve. Your hips buck into it. He grins between your legs and licks again. And again. And again. Until he feels your servos on his crest.“I need to ride your face,” you say – more declaration than request.He blinks, grin widening. “That desperate, huh?”“Shut up,” you growl – too adorable for your own good. How he wants to squeeze and smother you against his face.Your legs are soft on either side of his cheeks, servos gripping onto his crest with impressive strength for a creature so small and frail. He holds his glossa out for you to use as you please, two digits holding your hips in case you tumble off.“How…”You pant.“How are you this good?”He shrugs with his free arm. His vents blast harder.“I’m not even doing anything,” he mumbles with his glossa out.“Of course you are. You’re being your sweet himbo self,” your words falter as you keep riding. His cheekplates heat up.“Uh, a what now?”There’s no answer, only your legs shaking as you furiously grind against his intake. Your grip tightens, your entire frame shaking.“Breakdown!” you call out, vox breaking.A sudden burst of charge travels down his interface array. His pressurized spike clanks against his panel.“Frag,” he groans. His spike’s throbbing, Ugh, it hurts like he smashed it against a wall.At least you’re oblivious to his, uh, mishap – twitching against his glossa while trying to slow your ventilation.The plating of hips shifts and his panels release his array. His valve is soaking with transfluid, steam almost emanating off of it after overheating for half a groon. The cold air makes his spike twitch.“Is it… is it time?” you ask weakly, turning around to look at his lap. “Oh hey, so that’s where the noise came from.”He cringes, but still helps you get down. You scurry towards the middle of the berth on unsteady legs and cheer out “Show me the goods, big boy!”Mass displacement is something he’d done in the past – back on Cybertron when there was plenty of energon to go by. Now it’s just a waste. Not for you, obviously! Primus, you’re worth every last drop.His working receptors buzz with sensation. System diagnostics appear at the corner of his vision.Mass conversion: successfulWarning:Minimum energon required: 70%Current level: 93%His joints are calibrated, there’s no ache in his processor, subspace feels fine – everything’s in working order. He can rest easy and focus on the important stuff.“Woah.” you beam at him. It’s uncanny to see you… so much bigger than he’s used to.The hug is sudden but not unwelcome. Your helm comes up to his chassis, but only barely. It doesn’t take long for you to pull him on top (the close view is to offline for), and drag him into a kiss. His spark pulsates like never before.“Please, spike me,” you beg. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”He looks down at his spike. Then back at you. There are many things he’s learned as a nurse, one of which being: pick the smallest pair of forceps when operating on minicons. Sadly, he cannot replace his spike with a smaller one. But he can prepare you for the operation.“Hey, how about I get you started with something else before you get the hammer?” He lifts up the servo with functioning receptors and flexes his digits.“Promise you’ll rail me afterwards.”“Promise.” He grins.He’s a denter first and all, but he’s always been careful with his servos back when brushing debris off his comrades after a busted demolition job. It felt like second nature to him. They were at the bottom of the scrapheap. Caring for others, even in small ways, made their plight bearable. His own at least.He pushes in, chuckling as you furrow your optical ridge, intake slightly agape.“Does it sting?”“No.”Another digit is carefully added. You whimper and grit your dentae. One digit and a half then.“What about now? How do you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?”“Oh shut up…”Your tiny valve is absolutely soaked, slick with human lubricant, struggling to accommodate him. If you’ve taken the entire High Command, you can take him. Sure, he’s been told his spike is a “weapon forged by Solus herself”, but Megatron’s definitely bigger. And you’ve fragged him. Everyone knows that. Your valve’s more durable than it seems.You clench around his digits, expression so lovely it’s clear you’re about to overload. He cautiously curls a digit inside of you. The gentle pressure’s an easy way to make your valve calipers clam down on him.Another whimper escapes you as he rubs at the spot. Your pedes push against his thighs, a desperate plea to stop. But he knows better.“Cute,” he thinks as your sweet noises intensify. He never expected fleshies to be so adorable – but then again, you’re not like the other squishies. Lord Megatron picked the best one.“Please,” you whisper. “This is torture.”“Aw, I thought you wanted to overload.”“You and I…”You swallow.“We both know damn well you’re teasing me. I need your spike, not… not this.”He laughs.“I keep my promises, don’t worry about it.”He pulls you flush against him, legs over his hips. Bracing himself on one servo, he’s got an arm cautiously wrapped around your waist.“Comfortable? How do you rate your position on a scale from 1 to-”“Breakdown, I swear to fu-”“Got it. It’s hammer time.” He grins.You grip onto his digits and offline your optics.He pushes in.You suck in a sharp in-vent. He pauses.“Go on,” you say after a moment. “I can take it. I guess I didn’t expect it to be so big.”“Big?” He blinks at you. “You’re the one taking Lord Megatron. He’s larger than me.”“Not his spike.” You chuckle.He looks up at the ceiling in wonder. “Wow.”“Wow indeed. Now please put that spike to good use.”Like a good soldier and seasoned interface partner, he follows your orders.Ridge by ridge, you take him, grip tightening and dentae gritting until he reaches your limit. He shudders. You’re clenching around him like a cold press, crushing his spike harder than any minicon valve. You seem on the verge of shutting down.“You okay?”“...yeah.”“Do you want me to stop?”“Don’t you dare.”“Got it.” His smile widens.The pace is incredibly slow. Yeah, Knock Out likes having his circuits rearranged – and yeah, most vehicons he’s been with want to get railed into oblivion. But taking his time with you feels just as good.Charge is building along his array.He wants to tell you so many things – how you’re so beautiful holding onto him like he’s the center of your universe, whimpering and repeating his name listlessly – or how he wishes this could last forever, that he can forget the war when your arms are wrapped around his frame, no matter how small.Your optics come back online and meet his. Wordlessly, you beckon him closer. He leans down, now bracing himself on his arm. Your servos find his face.“Have I ever told you how handsome you are?” you ask, nuzzling his cheekplate. It’s not the first time you’ve done so. But at this moment, either from mass displacement or the sight of you sprawled out before him (or both), his spark throbs in his chassis. His array is pulsating with charge.He presses his forehelm against yours. “Yeah. You always do.”“Good. Because I love you.”Your lips meet his.The charge explodes.Your valve clamps down on his spike.Sparks shoot through his sensors – his engine roars.The world stands still.Then, he breaks the silence.“By…” his vox crackles with static.He recalibrates his vocalizer.“By Alchemist Prime…” there’s still a buzz to his words. “What was that?”“You tell me,” you answer shakily.Neither of you move for a while.Diagnostics report:Energon level: 87%He pulls out of you, earning a wince. You loosen your grip on his neck and fall back.His optics widen at the load of transfluid trickling out, valve still twitching. He feels equal parts pride and wonder something so small took his spike. Should he tell you about it? You appreciate when he says what’s on his processor. Not everyone does.“Good job,” he tells you, petting your helm like the human he once saw congratulating its furry companion.Your expression spells confusion. Then, you grin wider than he’s ever seen and pet him back. His engine rumbles in content.“I would die for you,” you declare without a hint of sarcasm in your vox. He laughs nervously.“Please don’t, Lord Megatron would kill me.”“Then I’d kill him first.”“But you’d already be dead.”“I’d come back as a ghost.”He laughs again, twice as nervous.“Anyway, was it… good?”“You blew my back out.”“I – what?”“You rearranged my guts.”“Wait, are you about to offline-”“Human euphemisms.”“Oh.”“It means it was the best frag of my life.”“I… oh wow.”He allows you to pull him back on top.“You’re the best I could have asked for.”His cooling fans are blasting.“Um…”“You’re my favorite blueberry popsicle.”“Uh, thanks?”“I love it when you’re blue in the face.”More energon rushes to his cheeks.“Oh, um – you too!”Frag - that didn’t sound smooth. He hasn’t been this bad since he was newly forged.“Raspberry and blueberry,” you press your helm against his. “My favorite mix.” You kiss him again, less desperately – finally satiated for the next cycle. Or at least a few groons.“Can you cuddle in this form?” Or…do you have to turn back?”He hits his chassis with pride. “Another groon won’t hurt me – I’ll do just fine..”“Aw hell yeah!”He lies down and you quickly take your place at his side, burying your face in the crook between his neck and his chassis. You let out a hum when his digits stroke your back. He can sense the minuscule hairs on your plating. They tickle.A klik passes by, but you can’t seem to sit still. You push his arm away, readjust yourself, then pull it back on top, only to start again a nanoklik later.“Everything ok?”You make a noise of frustration – so adorable it makes his spark ache.“Give me a sec,” you mutter.He watches as you get up to fetch your blanket and pillows.“Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I barely managed to clean up before coming over.”“Don’t matter.” You cover his side in them. “I just want to cuddle you.”He bites his glossa. You’re too sweet for your own good.Once comfortable, his servo comes back to stroke your skin. You shiver.“Are you cold? Do you want me to get the heating pad?”“No. You’re warm enough. It just… feels nice to be with you this way. I meant what I said. I do love you. Maybe not on Knock Out’s level – he’s known you before my great grandparents were even born.”He affectionately taps your helm. “I mean, yeah – but what does that have to do with us? Do you humans have a monogamous contract or something?”Your expression says it all.“Oh,” he drawls. “Uh – it doesn’t mean that you can’t be with us, it’s that-”“I’m Megatron’s first and foremost,” you say, looking away from him and straight at the wall.“I… yes. But I mean that-”“I’m together with everyone. I know that.” You turn your attention back to him. “And no, it doesn’t bother me. I simply want to give you the praise you deserve. And the energon. Man, you need that so badly.”Resting your helm atop his chassis, you flash him a warm smile. “I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.”
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“Let it go,” Ratchet says. Roughness underlines his drunken drawl. You’ve never seen him sober.He takes a swig of the strange teal concoction at his workstation. It glows through his throat as he swallows.Once, you asked Optimus what the Chief Medical Officer was drinking. “High grade,” he replied with the gentle patience of a parent.Except you’ve seen high grade. It’s bubbly and bright blue, nothing close to the radioactive liquid in Ratchet’s glass.His near-constant drunken stupor is what you’ve been banking on, a faulty investment at that.Some concerned, almost empathetic part of you wants to ask what’s wrong, but you know better than that.Trauma has seeped into the very mechanism of their faction. Arcee looks at you with silent rage for wasting their leader’s precious time, while Bulkhead doesn’t spare you a glance. He is wholly uncaring, the same as Ratchet. But the doctor listens at least; watches on with disinterest as you speak, though his responses are cold and jagged.Whatever conversation he may entertain instantly evaporates when Optimus makes his presence known. “Bitlet,” he calls you with suffocating tenderness. The comfort it brings is no different from shoving frost-bitten hands into a fire. You flash him a smile and approach despite your better instincts, legs carrying you to the edge of the mezzanine as though trudging through heavy snow. When his digit comes to stroke your cheek, you do not flinch or reel back in disgust. After all, weren’t his servos caressing tender flesh mere hours ago? Didn’t you kiss the lips of the liar you call home? Or uttered those three cursed words like you meant it? What is there to love in a murderer? More than you can ever imagine.How could such kindness hold nothingness behind it? That which you considered contempt has revealed itself to be much worse: utter apathy.“You seem to be socializing more than usual,” he says with genuine interest, as though his words have no hidden meaning. Ratchet, although his back is turned, flinches under the weight of his gaze.Do not call attention to it.“You could certainly put it that way,” you attempt to mimic the warmth of his tone.His optics scan you with ease. Mimicry doesn’t work on him. He sees right through you.How could a conversation so menial feel like walking across a frozen pond? One wrong step and you’ll fall into the icy depths.His expression doesn’t shift, frozen with warmth.“Would you like to join me at the archives? I seem to have decrypted files which may be to your liking.”Yet again, he pulls you away from the only means of discerning the truth. Who Optimus is behind his carefully constructed mask only the doctor knows. They met before Earth, before the war, before Megatronus. And it cost him terribly.You give the response Optimus expects, his gaze burning hotter than a thousand suns.He cups you in his servos with sickening tenderness you both love and despise; a veneer of kindness hiding a monster whose form you cannot discern.Step closer and risk to be engulfed by the darkness surrounding him? Or let yourself be devoured until he tires of your flesh?You lack the luxury to choose.
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You've probably noticed I'm not posting here as much. It's mostly because I have two big multi-chapter fics going on along with other personal constraints in my life. I'm also trying to make sure I don't burn out/force myself to post stuff else that's going to tank my enjoyment. I'm still going to post oneshots here - it's a place for me to explore smaller-scale ideas.Now, if you want to know what I'm up to, just check my Tumblr. I talk about my ideas there and build upon asks. You can send me just about anything. And yes, it's very much a valveplug blog. So if you need any writing updates or just space to speculate (or even contact me) - head there.
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His new pets are expensive.
Unimaginably
expensive.
If
he had the Matrix, things would have been easier. Alas, whatever crumbled it in his very servos would rather have miners suffer than give him what he’s owed.
Zeta Prime, despite his ignorance, arrogance and constant pontifications, was apparently “worthy”, all thanks to his status. The first of the Thirteens, forged before Sentinel’s spark was even a flicker in Primus’s core. Obviously, it must have been some grandiose lie – the Primes obviously tricked him and hid the real Matrix in some Primus-forsaken pit! A stupid fail-safe in case those under them got sick of their rule and decided to take things into their own servos! He would have found it by now if only the Quintessons weren’t upping their demands every other cycle…
Once he figures out how to crush those organic freaks they won’t be wrapping their filthy tendrils around him anymore.
Ugh. He’s getting ahead of himself. No use dwelling on
them
when he’s got two pretty human specimens in his grasp – a “male” and a “female”, whatever those terms mean. They weren’t particularly…
eager
to be sold, a fragging wonder considering their previous owners. But they’ll like him soon enough.
The expenses don’t end at a simple purchase. The little things require particular fuel and plenty of oxygen to survive – fuel printers and oxygen cartridges are costly, and he’s yet to pay this new debt. He’ll fix it. Somecycle. Whenever that will be.
For now, he’s got two exotic pets to play with, and he’ll enjoy them to their full extent until their short lives expire.
Their bodies are terribly soft, their fuel pumps going into overdrive as he simply instructs them on their tasks. They cling so easily to each other, but never to him. Little more than frightened animals. Still, it doesn’t stop him from wrapping his digits around his spike as he watches them interface. They’re stiff in their movements, wholly unable to act normal in his presence. And yet, even when he’s missing they refuse to touch each other this way.
Disappointing to say the least…
Whatever. He can make his own fun. They seem much more
receptive
when their servos are rubbing up and down his spike. Their expressions, usually twisted in fright, betray shameful pleasure as his glossa works them up one by one, his digit between the other’s legs. He’ll make them take his spike next.
With a bit more training, they’ll be eager to serve him. Just like he’s served his Primes.